


Outgoing & Incoming

by unquietspirit



Series: and, yes, we are a disaster [1]
Category: Fake News RPF, Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), Real News RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Drunk Sex, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Unrequited Love, don't let the character tags fool you. this isn't a PRT fic, in the words of sarken it's "an unfortunate chain of people screwing each other up", love is a war, workplace relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unquietspirit/pseuds/unquietspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson thinks he knows incoming fire from outgoing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outgoing & Incoming

**Author's Note:**

> This never happened. In the case of events you may recognize from real life (the 2008 election, the premiere of Rachel's show, various hurricanes, etc.), artistic liberties have been taken with the timeline and many other details. The rest of it is completely made up.

_It's amazing how quickly you get used to the sounds of shelling.  A couple days ago, I couldn't tell the difference between incoming and outgoing fire. Now it's obvious to my ear._ \- Anderson Cooper, July 26, 2006

 _Our local translator and friend Alon has lived in the town of Kiryat Shmona most of his life. He has years of practice playing the game. "Drive with the windows down so you can listen close," he says. "Outgoing sounds like a pop and incoming sounds more like a sucking sound."  I try, but can't tell the difference. Anderson says he can, but I'm not sure I believe him._ \- Charlie Moore, _AC360_ Producer, July 28, 2006

—

**_Prologue_ **

Like so many other things in his life, it started in New Orleans. Not during Katrina, but months afterward -- he can't remember the exact date now, only that it was winter. A long, gloomy day spent recording the lack of progress in the worst-hit parts of the city, followed by dinner at a restaurant. A few cops at the bar recognized Anderson and offered to buy him, Charlie, and Neil drinks for the rest of the night. How, exactly, that led to him waking up naked with his hand on his producer's ass is still unclear. There are reasons Anderson doesn't drink very often.

He had retreated to the shower, leaving Charlie passed out on the bed. When he emerged again, the room was empty. The only signs that the other man had been there were a lone sock by the nightstand and a suspicious stain on the sheet (though he supposed the stain could have been his own). He pulled the covers over it and kicked the sock under the bed.

When they met up in the hotel lobby, neither of them mentioned the night before. If Neil noticed anything, he didn't comment.

Anderson spent the flight home trying to penetrate the fog of his memories and listing the reasons there wouldn't be an encore. _One: I_ ' _ve outgrown my drunken one-night-stand phase. Two: we work together. Three: he pretended it didn_ ' _t happen too. Four: he_ ' _s straight.... Isn_ ' _t he? Surely that wouldn_ ' _t have happened if he was_ completely _straight...in any case numbers one, two, and three still apply. So that settles it._

Except that six weeks later in Congo, Charlie crawled into Anderson's bed naked at two AM.

It took Anderson a few seconds to wake up and make sense of what was happening, and then his first thought was, _Shit, he_ ' _s a good kisser._

"Andy," Charlie mumbled against his lips, "Andy, Andy, _Anderson..._ "

Anderson's stomach tightened at the way Charlie drew out his name in a decadent moan. Realizing he needed to regain control fast, Anderson threaded his fingers through Charlie's hair and tugged him away enough to say, "You're drunk."

"Only a lil'bit. Promise," came the slurred reply.

"As far as I know, you're also straight. And...we work together." Anderson was quite proud of himself for managing to remember most of his reasons while Charlie was rubbing what felt like a rather large cock against his leg.

" _Not_ straight, an' _..._ an' so wha' if we do?" He pulled free of Anderson's grip to attack the pulse point on his neck.

"There was a fourth reason," Anderson choked out, and then, as Charlie's teeth closed around his nipple, "Oh, _fuck it_."

A dark chuckle, a rush of hot breath tingling on his moistened skin, and he arched his back into it.

"No," Charlie growled, "fuck _me_."

The next morning, he woke up alone and remembered the fourth reason -- reason number three, actually: Charlie pretended it hadn't happened.

He found he was embarrassingly willing to play along with Charlie's game. _If it was a game and not the result of a blackout, which makes you the jerk that takes advantage of a drunk friend_. _Never again_.

But by then they were caught up in the cycle. There were rules to it, not set down by either of them but seeming to materialize all the same. It always happened on location, never in New York. Charlie always initiated. Charlie was not always drunk, but even sober he was never in the best state of mind. (Those were the times when they'd stepped too close to the edge of chaos and horror, and Anderson didn't feel as guilty about them because at least he and Charlie were on equal footing then.) Whoever woke up first left the room without waking the other, and they went on like nothing happened. Anderson was convinced that Neil must have noticed, but he kept to the same pretending game, so it hung unacknowledged between all of them, delicate as a spider web. It continued for two years.

And then Jon introduced him to Keith, and that changed everything and nothing.

 

**_One_ **

They had known each other before, of course. There was a brief timeframe when their jobs at CNN overlapped, and Keith had always nodded politely when they passed in the hallways. Anderson vaguely remembers a segment during his stint on the morning show, sitting next to Keith and being hyper aware of the difference in their sizes, the way their thighs accidentally brushed against each other. He also remembers a series of segments about baseball when he was subbing for Aaron Brown. He had laughed too much, considering he only understood about a third of it, just to see Keith smile. But he wasn't going to make a fool of himself by asking out an obviously-straight coworker, and then Keith left for MSNBC, Anderson got his own show, and they were time slot rivals. Not that Anderson cared about ratings much, but in his experience, relationships -- platonic or otherwise -- with the competition never worked out. He'd seen Keith across the room at the few industry functions he couldn't duck out of, and sometimes he thought he saw Keith look back at him. That was as far as it went.

It's at a fundraiser Stephen and Evie are hosting that they actually speak to each other again. Anderson is standing by the kitchen doors -- would be standing in the kitchen itself if it weren't for the caterers -- and Jon finds him.

"Oh, no you don't, Cooper. You're not gonna pull one of your disappearing acts at Stephen's party. Socializing once in a while won't kill you."

"There's no proof of that," Anderson says, though he follows good-naturedly when Jon takes his wrist and pulls him into the crowd. That is, until he spots where Jon is leading him. "Keith Olbermann?"

Jon looks over his shoulder when Anderson's step falters, but he continues walking, tugging Anderson with him. "He doesn't bite, usually. And I think he's recently ticked off almost everyone else here, so you're his only option."

"How comforting."

Keith  _does_  look lonely, standing by himself with one hand in his pocket and a drink in the other.

"Andy, Keith. Keith, Andy."

"We've met," Anderson says, and immediately regrets it. If Keith doesn't remember meeting, that's going to seem weird. "Briefly," he amends, hoping his blush doesn't show in the dim lighting.

"Good to see you again," Keith says, pulling his hand out of his pocket and extending it. Anderson can't tell if he means it or if he's just being polite.

They shake, and Jon claps them both on the shoulder -- well, Anderson on the shoulder and Keith on the middle of his back. "Play nice," he says, and walks away.

Anderson braces himself for the awkward silence, but Keith interrupts it before it can progress too far. "Andy?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Um, yeah. Stephen and Jon are really the only ones that call me that. Well, and my mom, sometimes. When I was younger. Not so much any more. I don't mind, though." He pauses to collect himself before he blurts out any of his mother's more embarrassing nicknames for him, and then says, in what fails miserably at being an offhand manner, "You can call me Andy, if you want."

Keith's other eyebrow slowly joins the first. He nods. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Sorry," Anderson says, flushing again. "I'm not good at small talk."

Keith says, "It's fine,  _Andy_ ," in a tone that could be teasing or outright mocking.

Anderson giggles, out of nervousness more than anything, which earns a frown. Keith's probably never heard such a sound coming from a grown man before.  _Get a grip_ , Anderson tells himself sternly.

They stand in silence for a few seconds, Keith looking at his drink, Anderson hoping that Jon will come back and rescue him, and then Keith says, brusquely, "I saw your coverage of Kenya the other night. It was well-done."

"Thank you," Anderson says, and then, because he doesn't watch Keith's show and therefore can't compliment him on it and has completely failed to get a grip on himself, "You're not wearing a tie. It suits you."

 _Shit_.

"Sorry, sorry," he says before Keith can comment. "It's nothing personal. Some of my friends say I'm like Julia Roberts in  _Runaway Bride_."

"Never seen it," Keith says, clearly confused, though at least he hasn't left in horror.

"Sometimes I just spazz out with excess flirtatious energy and it lands on anything male that moves," Anderson explains with a self-deprecating laugh.

Rather than  _so it's true what they say about you_ , or  _as opposed to anything male that doesn't?_  or even  _I'm not interested; back off_ , Keith says, "That's a shame. I was hoping it  _was_  something personal."

Which is how Anderson leaves the party with a date for the following Saturday with Keith fucking Olbermann, of all people.

 

**_Two_ **

He didn't mean to tell anyone about it, but Jon calls a few days later to invite Anderson to yet another party (What is it with January and fundraisers?), and refuses to believe Anderson already has plans for that night until he discloses all the details. After which there is a long silence, and then Jon says, "I dragged you over to him because I thought you would be the only one Zen enough to not attempt inflicting grievous bodily harm within ten minutes! A  _date?_  With  _Olbermann?_ "

"I've...kind of always had a thing for him?"

Jon snorts, making a burst of static over the line. "I don't see it, but hey, whatever breaks your news. Anchors your desk. Writes your headline. Pulitzers your prize. Creams your Twinkie." He pauses. "I realize that last one wasn't journalism-related, but I didn't think the others were laden with enough innuendo."

"Yeah, thank you for making it clear," Anderson says, dryly. "I wasn't quite sure what you were getting at."

"No problem! Good luck on Saturday. With the Twinkie-creaming."

"I don't know what gossip you've been listening to, Mr. Stewart, but I am  _not_ the kind of girl who puts out on a first date!"

 

Only it turns out he is  _exactly_  that kind of girl.

He blames the chocolate mousse pie they order for dessert. When he licks some of it off his lips, Keith's eyes follow the movement of his tongue and noticeably darken, and suddenly Anderson needs to know  _now_  what they'll look like when Keith comes.

"Why don't we go back to my place?"

Keith smirks. "Why don't we?"

 

The cab deposits them outside Anderson's building twenty minutes later. He nods to his doorman casually, like it's completely normal for him to be bringing home anchors from other networks. But then, it sort of is, if you count Jon and Stephen.

In the elevator, Keith keeps giving Anderson looks that make him feel like his bones are melting, and he has to remind himself that there's a security camera in the corner to keep from mauling him right then. When they finally stop on his floor, he grabs Keith's hand and leads him to his apartment, beyond caring that there are also cameras in the hallway. He gets the door unlocked and Keith pushes him inside and kicks it shut behind them.

"Bedroom?" Keith asks, eyes fixed on Anderson's mouth again.

"Upstairs. It's a duplex," Anderson says breathlessly. Upstairs seems miles away right now. He stands on tiptoe and presses his lips to Keith's, and Keith makes a half-moaning, half-grunting sound that doubles the distance to Anderson's bedroom.

But then Keith pulls away and says, "I'm really too old to do this standing up," so Anderson nods.

"This way," he says, taking Keith's hand again and pulling him toward the staircase. Halfway up, Keith starts nipping at his neck, and Anderson stumbles on the next step. " _Jesus_ , wait until we're on even ground to do that!"

"Sorry," Keith says, stopping. Anderson wants to take it back, but they're already on the second floor by then, so it doesn't matter.

"Just-- here. Let me shut the door."

"Expecting visitors?" Keith asks, raising an eyebrow.

It's a precaution against Molly, who sleeps in his bed, wandering in at an awkward moment, but Keith has his jacket off and his shirt unbuttoned and Anderson forgets to explain that. There's a frantic minute while they strip each other's clothes off -- Keith yanking Anderson's shirt over his head so quickly he hears a button go flying, Anderson taking Keith's glasses off and putting them safely on the dresser -- and then they fall onto the bed, Keith on top of Anderson and biting down the side of his neck again.

Anderson whimpers, arching his head back to give him better access. He runs a hand down Keith's skin from clavicle to navel, enjoying the texture of his chest hair and hoping Keith's not disappointed with his own smoothness. On the way back up, his fingers brush over Keith's nipple, and Keith grunts in an encouraging way, so Anderson pays more attention to both of them, rubbing his thumbs over them in circles. Keith responds by biting down hard on his shoulder.

"Fuck!" Anderson says, and wraps a leg around Keith's hips, thrusting against him. Keith rolls onto his back, reversing their positions.

"I was thinking more like, 'suck,'" he says.

Anderson snorts. "I can do that." He leans down and kisses Keith again before untangling himself enough to slide down the bed, pausing to lick at Keith's nipples and earn another of those moans, then moving down farther and taking Keith's cock into his mouth without preamble.

Keith grabs Anderson's head with both hands, not pushing down, though from the tension in his fingers and the barest hint of a thrust his hips give, he wants to. His cock is huge, proportionate to the rest of his body, and  _hard,_  and Anderson wants to make him come. Teasing and drawing it out can wait for another time. Right now, he wants to see how dark Keith's eyes will go when he's watching Anderson lick come, not chocolate, off his lips, so he sets about making that happen, and soon Keith is groaning continuously and rocking his hips like he can't  _not,_  and Anderson has to stop rolling Keith's balls in his hand to reach down and grip his own dick, just to relieve some of the pressure. It shoots pleasure up his spine, where it explodes into stars at the back of his head, and he moans around Keith, and Keith's hands tighten on his head almost painfully and hold him still as he comes into Anderson's mouth.

Anderson, caught a little off guard, quickly closes his throat so he doesn't choke and looks up as much as he can to see Keith's face. He looks almost pained, eyes shut tight, brow furrowed, mouth twisted into a snarl. He looks angry.

When he lets go, Anderson sits up and swallows the mouthful of come, then deliberately waits for Keith to open his eyes and look at him before he licks the last bit off his lips. His dick jerks against his stomach as he watches Keith's pupils go impossibly wider.

Anderson lies down next to him, turned on his side with his elbow propping him up, resting his other hand on Keith's chest so he can feel him regain his breath. After he's mostly got it back, Keith rolls onto his side, too. He bites down right on the juncture of Anderson's neck and shoulder and then wraps a hand around him, and it's only a few strokes before the stars are back in Anderson's head and then shooting down his spine and he comes, all over Keith's hand and the bedspread and both their stomachs.

 

"You know you curse like a sailor when you come?" Keith asks half a minute later, sounding amused. Anderson's eyes are closed, and he doesn't have the breath to do more than grunt in reply. "You do. It's surprising, and hot. You've got such a squeaky-clean image on television."

"Clearly," Anderson says between pants, "you never heard the episode of  _Loveline_  that I was on."

" _Loveline_  is radio, not television," Keith points out. "And when did you do that?"

"When I was doing  _The Mole_ , and wasn't really thinking about how audio clips of me talking about my masturbation habits would affect my career."

"Doesn't seem to have done it too much harm."

"No, I suppose not." Anderson opens his eyes and meets Keith's gaze. "I always thought you were...I mean, you weren't--" he gestures between them.

"I'm bi," Keith says, matter of fact. "I don't talk about it much. I'm sure you can understand."

Anderson nods. He thinks about this for a few seconds. "You and Dan Patrick?"

"Ha! No, Dan's straight as an arrow, and not my type anyway."

 _Am I your type?_ Anderson wants to ask, but it seems too much like something a teenage girl with a crush would say. Keith doesn't need to know that's how he feels. He climbs off the bed. "I'll bring you a washcloth to clean up."

"Thanks."

When he returns from the bathroom, Keith is standing, gathering his clothes off the floor. Anderson passes him the washcloth and says, "You could stay, if you want. There's plenty of room."

Keith shakes his head. "Can't."

Anderson nods, swallowing his disappointment. Of course Keith can't stay. He's got a busy schedule, and he might not want to risk someone noticing him leaving the apartment in the morning. Anderson knows what that's like. Or maybe he thinks the first date is too soon for sleepovers. "Well, I really enjoyed tonight," he says, watching Keith get dressed. "Not just the sex, but dinner earlier, too. We should do it again sometime."

"Yeah, we should. Have you seen my other shoe?"

Anderson retrieves it from under the nightstand and hands it to him. "How's Wednesday? After the shows? I know a steak place in Hell's Kitchen that's open late."

Keith pulls his jacket back on, and Anderson tries to ignore the awkward feeling from being naked while Keith is fully clothed again. "Sounds good," he says. "I'll call you." He bends down and gives Anderson a quick kiss before leaving.

 

Over the next few weeks, they have early lunches, late dinners, and sex whenever they can fit it in -- which is often, as it turns out. They debate their differing styles of journalism and the latest episode of  _Mad Men_ , and then go back to one of their apartments (Keith's, usually, because it's close enough to their studios that Anderson can stay the night) and have more sex.

Jon calls Anderson more frequently than he ever used to, ostensibly for other reasons, but eventually it always gets around to him asking for progress updates and then making skeptical noises when Anderson says it's going really well. He must be passing information on to Stephen, because Anderson gets a text from him in the middle of a broadcast that says,  _I've always wondered...is Keith overly large everywhere?_

Blushing hotly and glad that his makeup is covering it, he sends back,  _Mind your own business._

Stephen replies,  _That's a yes. ;D_

 

Keith and Anderson discuss, briefly, on one of their first dates, the implications of being seen together, but other than banning public displays of affection, they don't worry about it much. There's nothing in either of their contracts about not associating with each other. So when Charlie walks into Anderson's office towards the end of February and says, "The higher-ups want to know why you were seen having dinner with Keith Olbermann," Anderson raises an eyebrow at him.

"It’s none of their business."

Charlie shrugs and drops down onto the sofa. "They’re worried you might be defecting to the enemy."

"MSNBC?" Anderson asks, frowning.

Charlie hesitates and rubs the back of his neck before saying, "Your contract  _is_  up at the end of the year."

"Keith isn't in charge of hiring other anchors."

"Did he tell you about the potential offer to Rachel Maddow?" Charlie asks. "It's not official yet, but word is, Olbermann's behind the whole thing. He's obviously got some influence over there."

Anderson has heard Keith mention a Rachel, but he has no idea what offer Charlie's talking about.  _It's not like Keith and I share every detail of our work with each other,_ he thinks,  _and after all the things I've done for them, CNN should_ know  _that I'm loyal._  "It was a personal dinner," he snaps. "We have mutual friends. I'm not 'defecting to the enemy.'" He surrounds the phrase in air-quotes and then drops his hands back onto his desk, immediately regretting taking his anger out on Charlie, who looks a bit hurt.

Before Anderson can apologize, Charlie says, "I'll pass that along," and leaves.

 

**_Three_ **

Moving in together isn't something they discuss. It just happens. Anderson starts bringing over changes of clothes that never quite make it back to his own apartment, and soon a dozen t-shirts, three pairs of jeans, and two hoodies are piled up on a chair in Keith's bedroom, until he comes in one day a couple of weeks later and they're missing. Keith explains that he got sick of looking at them and shoved them all into the bottom drawer of his dresser. When Anderson opens it, he finds that a stack of Keith’s sweatshirts still takes up a third of it. He doesn’t mind. It means his clothes smell like Keith’s.

Molly is next to migrate over. Anderson already feels guilty enough leaving her with his dog-walker/sitter while he's away on assignments (even though she  _loves_  Josh to a degree that makes Anderson slightly jealous), so he brings her to Keith's one night, and smiles sheepishly when Keith opens the door. "I hope you don't mind? She gets lonely. She's very well-behaved."

Keith grunts and steps aside to let him in. "Keep her off the furniture," is all he says.

 

For a while Anderson's routine is to get up early, take Molly to his apartment so Josh can walk her at noon, go to work, then go back to his apartment to feed her and take her back to Keith's for the night. After a few weeks of this, he asks Josh if he covers Keith's neighborhood.

"Well, I don't normally," he says, "but Molly's one of my favorite clients, so I suppose I can make an exception for her."

"Thanks. I can pay you extra for the inconvenience. I'll get you a key tomorrow."

Except that when he asks Keith for a copy of his key that night, after explaining why he wants it, Keith refuses.

"I'm not giving out my key to a man I don't even know."

"I know him!" Anderson says. "I've known him for years. He's had access to my apartment and never stolen a thing."

"You might be comfortable with that--"

"I-- you know, you've got serious trust issues."

"Look," Keith says, "I'm fine with you bringing her when you spend the night, but her being here alone--" 

Anderson looks over at Molly, who is sitting and watching them with her ears pricked up. "What? I've trained her to stay off the couch."

Keith sighs. "I'm not a pet person, Anderson. I don't want a dog living here."

Anderson doesn't point out that  _he_  practically lives there and he's not about to get rid of Molly. Instead, he crosses his arms and says, "So I've just imagined you rubbing her belly with your feet while you watch games?"

"Just because I like keeping my toes warm and she happens to lay there doesn't mean--"

"It's about being  _practical_. It's ridiculous for me to get up early to take her back to my place and then go get her at night when Josh agreed to come here. It takes away time I could be spending with you, doing  _other_  things." He steps forward and runs a hand down Keith's chest before hooking his fingers in Keith's belt loop.

Keith's gaze drops to Anderson's fly, and damn if Anderson doesn't start getting hard just from that.

"I suppose that does make sense," Keith says quietly.

The next day, Anderson takes the key to a locksmith and gets two copies made. Keith doesn't seem to notice when he starts letting himself into the apartment.

 

"There's this guy in South Africa who swims with Great Whites." 

Charlie swallows a mouthful of roast beef sandwich, licks a dab of mayonnaise off the corner of his lips, and says, "Sorry, I didn't realize it was Random Facts About South Africa Day."

"For  _Battle Lines_ ," Anderson says, stepping further into Charlie's office and sitting on the edge of his desk. "I want to see if he'll take me."

"Take you diving with Great White sharks without a cage?" Charlie leans back in his chair and gives Anderson a look that says something along the lines of  _you're insane, but I should expect that by now_.

"He does it to better understand them and reduce fear about them. It'd be a good companion to the segment on shark-fin soup."

"Yeah, it'd also be incredibly dangerous. I'm not sure the bigwigs would approve."

Anderson smiles, feeling almost like he did when he asked his college roommate to forge him a press pass. "Tell them it'll be great free publicity for the special if I get eaten."

Looking pained, Charlie sets his sandwich down on his desk.

"Sorry," Anderson says. "I didn't mean to give you that mental image while you were having lunch."

"It's fine." Charlie shakes his head. "I'll talk to them, but I make no promises. What's sharkman's name?"

"I'll email it to you."

 

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Anderson says quickly, trying to make it look like he was merely scratching his cheek.

Keith frowns and steps around him to the other bathroom sink. "Looked like you were popping a zit."

Anderson sighs. "Well, yes, if you want to suck all the romance out of our morning, that's what I was doing."

"It wasn't very romantic before," Keith says, opening his medicine cabinet and taking out his shaving cream and razor. He studies Anderson's face in the mirror for a moment before saying, "I don't see a zit."

"It's under the surface," Anderson says. "It's been like that for over a month now. I keep expecting it to break out. Are you sure you want to have this conversation before breakfast? Because I'm certainly losing  _my_  appetite."

"You should go to a dermatologist," Keith says. "You're going to damage that pretty face of yours if you keep that up, and you know how those HD cameras pick up everything."

Anderson rolls his eyes, but later that day he calls a dermatology clinic and gets an appointment for the following week.

 

When he tells Keith the diagnosis over a late dinner at their apartment, he makes sure to start with, "It's not a big deal," but Keith looks at him with his lips parted for a few seconds and then says, "Cancer is never 'not a big deal.' Have I told you about the tumor I had in my mouth?"

"No," Anderson says, surprised.

"It was benign, thank God, but it scared me enough to stop smoking cigars." He points his fork at Anderson and says, "You need to use more sun protection."

"Yes, doctor," Anderson says, rolling his eyes, but he's only feigning annoyance. Underneath it, he enjoys Keith's sudden concern. "Anyway, I have to call work and get some time off for the surgery and recuperation."

"Let me know if you need anything."

Anderson smiles. "I will."

 

A few days later, he returns from the office of the discreet, upscale plastic surgeon his mother recommended with four stitches under his eye and finds Keith in the living room watching ESPN. It's not baseball, so Anderson decides to risk straddling his lap.

Keith moves the remote away from Anderson's knee and raises an eyebrow at him. "Nice bandage. Does wonders for your rugged image." 

"Thanks," says Anderson. "Remember you said I should let you know if I need anything?"

"Vaguely."

"Well." Anderson shifts, like he's trying to get comfortable on Keith's thighs. "I have a clean bill of health and I don't have to go back to work until Wednesday. I need suggestions for how to spend my time."

"Let me think about it," Keith says, pulling him closer and smirking. "I'm sure I'll come up with something."

 

Even Anderson's libido eventually needs a break. He goes into the bathroom to clean himself up while Keith changes the sheets and then returns to crawl between the fresh ones, feeling pleasantly fucked-out and sleepy. He closes his eyes and feels the bed shift as Keith joins him. For as often as they have sex, it's surprising that they've never done this before, lying around and fucking all day long. It's such a  _couple_  thing to do, and it makes Anderson grateful for the cancer -- though he doesn't voice that, knowing Keith will give him another lecture on sunscreen. He moves closer to him and is about to reach back for Keith's arm to pull over his chest when there's the sound of the television being turned on. He frowns and looks over his shoulder.

"The game is on," Keith says, sitting against the headboard with pillows supporting his back.

"It's also on in the living room."

Keith shrugs. "There's a couch you could use to nap there, too."

Anderson sighs, but he wants to be close to Keith more than he wants sleep. He rearranges himself so he's lying on his side across the bed with his legs curled up and his head resting on Keith's thigh. "Just try not to jostle me too much," he says. Keith grunts. Anderson's not sure he was even paying attention. He watches the ceiling fan make slow, hypnotizing circles until his neck hurts from holding his head that way, and then looks at the television without really seeing it.

Later, there's a break in the playing (seventh-inning stretch, maybe?) and Keith says, "Off. I have to piss."

Anderson sits up and uses the opportunity to straighten his cramped legs. He's idly scratching at the stitches when Keith returns and bats his hand away.

"You'll make it bleed, goober."

Anderson smiles. There's a note of fondness in the insult that would be completely absent were Keith lobbing it at anyone else. He waits for Keith to climb onto the bed and get comfortable and then curls up against him once more.

 

_**Four** _

While Anderson is trying to catch up on  _Real Housewives_  and Keith is spite-reading conservative blogs the next day, his EP, David Doss, calls with an opportunity to go on the campaign trail with Barack Obama.

"Strictly voluntary. You're still on medical leave, so if you don't want to, they'll get John Ki--"

"I'm going," Anderson interrupts. "It's just a few stitches."

"Thought you might say that," David says, chuckling.

Anderson hangs up the phone after working out all the details and turns to Keith.

"Something's happened, I take it?"

"Nothing horrible. Pretty nice, actually -- I've got an embed with the Obama campaign," Anderson says. Keith nods once and goes back to reading _The Daily Beast_. There's a set to his shoulders that Anderson recognizes. "I know it cuts into our time together," he says, "but I'll hurry back as soon as I can, okay?"

"Don't," Keith says, turning and practically glaring at him. Anderson's taken aback until he continues, "Make the most of it and count yourself lucky. Not everyone gets that opportunity."

 _He's jealous,_  Anderson realizes. He's not sure what to do with the realization, though. It's not like he can get Keith an assignment on the campaign trail, too.  _Perils of dating a fellow newsman._  

Keith is distant all through the rest of the day.

 

He's still acting withdrawn as he watches Anderson pack a small bag of essentials from the apartment. "I need to drop by my office to talk to David and get my suits and good suitcase, but I'll still have time before my flight to come back here, if you want." 

"Why?" Keith asks, which is a fair question. Anderson shrugs.

"Don't know. Um...." He glances around the bedroom, feeling like he's missing something. Molly, who knows the signs that her master is going away, lies by his feet, looking at him dolefully. He crouches down to scratch behind her ears. "Josh will be by to pick her up later today."

"Fine. I'll make sure her things are all together."

"Thanks. Toothbrush! That's what I was forgetting." He steps over Molly to retrieve it from the bathroom. Keith follows and leans against the doorframe. Anderson opens the medicine cabinet and takes out his toothbrush, but hesitates over the tube of toothpaste, trying to remember if he bought it or Keith did. He's pretty sure it was Keith.

"Take it."

He looks at Keith, surprised. "You sure? I think that one's yours."

"I bought two. The other one's in the drawer. That one's almost empty, anyway, so you're saving me the annoyance of trying to squeeze the last of it out," he says.

 _Of course,_  Anderson thinks. Forcing a smile, he says, "Okay, that's everything. I should get going." He stands on tiptoe and kisses Keith, quick enough that he doesn't have a chance to respond. "I'll call you."

Keith nods, but doesn't move, so Anderson has to slide around him to get out of the bathroom.

 

His dressing room at CNN is really just a walk-in closet attached to his office. It's too small for him to actually pack in, so he takes his suitcase down from the shelf, opens it on his office floor, and carries his clothes out to it. On the second trip, he gathers up an armful of ties and dress socks, turns, and nearly runs into Charlie, who's suddenly appeared in the closet doorway. Anderson jumps. "Christ! You scared me."

"Sorry," Charlie replies, his eyes fixed on the bandage on Anderson's cheek.

"Can I?" Anderson gestures past Charlie, who looks at him blankly.

"Huh?"

"Could you move so I can get out of the room? Keith did this to me today, too."

Charlie winces apologetically and steps out of the way.

"You ready to go?" asks Anderson as he carries his socks and ties out.

"No. I mean, that's why I came."

Anderson frowns at him, and Charlie huffs in exasperation.

"Sorry, that made no sense. What I  _mean_  is, there's been a change of plan. Mary Ann is going with you, not me. I just cleared it with David."

"Oh," Anderson says, surprised.

Charlie rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, I've got too much to do for  _Planet in Peril_. I wouldn't be able to give it my full attention, and she needs the experience. That's all right, isn't it?"

"Yeah, of course," Anderson says. "You're right, she does need the experience."

Charlie nods and watches him pack. "What are you going to do about...." He trails off and points at his own cheek.

"I can take the bandage off now, so it won't be so glaringly obvious. And I figured I'd just write a quick blog post about it before I go, just to let the viewers know what the stitches are for and that it's not a big deal."

"It was cancer," Charlie says, raising his eyebrows. "Cancer is a big deal."

Anderson smiles. "That's almost exactly what Keith said. But I'm fine now."

Charlie looks away. "Good. Anyway, I should let you finish packing. See you later."

"Bye."

 

By the time Anderson's plane lands, his quick blog post has gone viral. He turns his BlackBerry back on and finds an email and two missed calls from his manager, wanting to know what to tell all the people inquiring about his health.  _Tell them I'm fine_ , Anderson writes back, and then Googles himself and marvels at the hyperbolic headlines. "Anderson Cooper: Dying of Cancer," indeed.

He calls Keith that night and carefully avoids anything that might sound like bragging about being on the campaign trail. Instead, he tries to keep the conversation focused on Keith, which isn't easy when Keith gives him one- or two-syllable responses to every question. Anderson hangs up feeling frustrated.

Operating under the theory that absence makes the heart grow fonder, he waits a day before trying again. This time, Keith's "hello" sounds much happier.

"Hey," Anderson says, smiling. "What're you up to?"

"Introducing Rachel, the philistine, to  _Mystery Science Theater 3000_."

"I am not a philistine!" a woman's voice calls from farther away.

"You are!" Keith shouts back, sounding muffled, like he's put his hand over the receiver. "Uncultured philistine, I say!"

"Pretentious snob!"

Keith lowers his voice, speaking into the phone again. "Says the woman who brought her own booze because mine wasn't good enough."

"Your booze sucks," Rachel says, closer than before. "Who's on the phone?"

"Anderson."

"Oh, let me-- Hi, Anderson Cooper! Keith, stop, I'll give it back in a minute. So you're the one who has to live with him. How do you manage it? Without taking a baseball bat to his knees, I mean?"

Rachel is talking cheerfully fast, and it takes Anderson a few seconds to catch up. "Um...you get used to it, I suppose?"

"Better you than me," Rachel laughs. "Well, Keith's got a hold of my arm and I don't think he's going to let go until I give the phone back. It was nice sort-of meeting you!"

He starts to say "you, too," but Keith interrupts him, apparently in possession of the phone once more.

"See what I mean? She has no manners at all."

"Yeah," Anderson says reflexively, and then, realizing how that sounds, "She seems nice. I'd like to meet her in person sometime."

"I'll see if I can arrange that," Keith says. "My drink, I'm told, is ready. Talk to you later, all right?"

"Okay. Bye." After the beep that lets him know Keith's disconnected, he adds, "I miss you."

 

**_Five_ **

By the end of the assignment, Obama has Anderson's vote in the primaries  _and_  the general election. Anderson doesn't mention that to anyone, of course -- least of all, Keith. The first and only time they tried to discuss politics, Keith had gotten so frustrated with Anderson's center-leaning tendencies that he called an early end to the date. Anderson is afraid to bring it up again.

He's got a mental list of neutral things to discuss, like how well Mary Ann did producing, but Keith just boxes him against the wall in the bedroom while he's trying to unpack and kisses him senseless, so  _that's_  all right.

 

One of the things he loves about live television is the anything-can-happen nature of it. Anderson has always been an adrenaline junkie, and it's a way to get his heart rate up with far less danger than travel to war zones. (Unless he happens to be broadcasting from a war zone, that is.) Which is why he doesn't really mind when he's sitting at the desk in his studio, reading last-minute changes to the show while a makeup guy hovers over him waging the perpetual Battle Against the Paleness, and Kevin, the floor director, says, "Uh, Anderson? You going to answer him?"

He leans sideways to see past the makeup guy and asks, "Answer who?"

Kevin taps his earpiece. "Charlie just said hello to you. You didn't hear him?"

"No," Anderson says, hand automatically going to check that his own earpiece is on. "Can he hear me?"

"Yeah," Kevin says.

"Control room to Anderson, control room to Anderson. You copy?"

It's not Charlie, but Sean, another of his producers. He nods at the camera. "I heard you, Sean."

"Charlie's damn control panel shorted out again," Sean says, sounding exasperated. "We've got a minute to air, so he's going to switch with me until Engineering gets up here to reset it."

"Again?" Anderson asks. "When are they going to replace that thing?"

"They claim there's nothing wrong with it. Something about him having an electromagnetic field that fucks it up. Anyway, here he is."

There's a pause and a burst of static as the mic on the other end brushes against something, and then, "Anderson?"

"Got you, Charlie."

"Let's hope it stays that way," Charlie says. "Thirty seconds to live."

 

"Get dressed. We're going out."

Anderson looks up from his book at the abrupt command and frowns. "What?"

"We have reservations," Keith says, "and we need to leave in fifteen minutes."

His frown deepens, because they haven't gone out to eat in over a month. "When did we make plans for tonight?  _Why_  did we make plans for tonight?"

Keith says, "It's your birthday on Tuesday, isn't it?" on his way into the bedroom, so he doesn't see Anderson's mouth drop open and then grin widely.

 

"You know, this is where we had our first date?" Anderson asks, voice low to prevent being overheard, as he follows Keith into the restaurant.

"I remember. I'm not  _that_  old," Keith says, then, to the maitre d', "We have the private room."

"Of course. Right this way, sirs."

 _Private room?_  Anderson thinks as they weave between tables in the dim light.  _So he doesn't want to be interrupted? Interesting. I wonder if they still make that chocolate mousse pie...._  He pictures himself smearing mousse on Keith's lower lip before sucking it off, and nearly trips over an empty chair. Keith grabs his elbow to steady him.

"It's only a couple more steps. Think you can manage it?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Anderson laughs. "Sorry."

The maitre d' is patiently standing beside a closed door a few feet away. "Just through here, sirs," she says, pushing it open. "Your server will be with you shortly."

Anderson turns his head to thank her as he crosses the threshold. When he turns back, he feels like he's tripping again, though there's nothing to trip over.

Jon and Stephen are sitting at a round table in the middle of the room. It's set for five, with two chairs empty for Anderson and Keith. In the last one, there's a woman with short brown hair and blue-framed glasses who looks over as they enter, smiles, and stands up. She's nearly as tall as Keith.

Keith takes Anderson's elbow again and pulls him over to her. "Anderson, this is Rachel Maddow. Rachel, Anderson Cooper." He grins at Anderson. "You said you wanted to meet her, so I arranged it."

"I did say that," Anderson agrees faintly. Rachel's smile dims a bit. He quickly holds out a hand to her and says, "It's good to meet you. Face-to-face, I mean."

"You, too," she says, brightening again and taking it. "I admire your work."

"Thank you," says Anderson, and then tries to think of a way to return the compliment without lying, because he's completely unfamiliar with Rachel's work. He's not even sure if she's a journalist or a pundit. Belatedly, he realizes he's been holding her hand too long and lets go. "Um...Keith's told me a lot about you."  _There, that's true. It's not Keith's fault I wasn't listening when he did._  To change the subject, he turns to Jon and Stephen. "Haven't seen you two in a long time."

"And whose fault is that, Mr. Workaholic?" Stephen asks, raising his trademark eyebrow. "You didn't even call when you got cancer!"

"I emailed!" Anderson protests. "At least, I know I emailed Jon," he amends. "I must have figured he'd pass it on to you."

"No, it's okay," Stephen says, sniffing delicately. "We know we're just the comedic relief in your life."

"Stephen, shut up," Jon says. "He emailed you about it, too. I saw your address on the one I got." He stands and rounds the table to give Anderson a hug.

" _Email_ ," Stephen mutters, like the very word offends him. "We're not worth a phone call?" But he gets up and hugs Anderson too, and then kisses him on the cheek, so Anderson knows it's an act. "Happy birthday, Andy."

"Thanks," Anderson says, and sits down between Jon and Keith, who has taken the chair next to Rachel.

 

Jon and Rachel start a debate over the appetizers about the role of satire in public discourse that draws the rest of them in and allows Anderson to deduce that Rachel is a pundit. A quite well-educated, intelligent, and articulate pundit at that, which he has to assume is the cause of the admiring looks Keith keeps giving her, because he's also deduced she's a lesbian.

By the time the entrees are brought out, the conversation has widened to media in general. It's strange, Anderson thinks, how well they all seem to get along -- if you ignore the awkwardness he hopes only he feels between himself and Rachel. Jon's even getting along with Keith. If they had met under different circumstances, he can see how they might all be friends. But then Keith looks at Rachel again, and he thinks,  _Maybe not._

The waiter brings in a chocolate mousse pie for dessert, with a single glowing candle stuck in it, and Keith smirks at him the entire time that Stephen is singing "Happy Birthday" in Latin. Anderson rushes through the pie and practically drags Keith out after hurried goodbyes to the rest of them.

 

At home, Keith pushes him down onto the bed so roughly he bounces on his back a few times. Keith puts his knee between Anderson's thighs and pins both of Anderson's wrists to the mattress with his hands. "What'll it be, birthday boy?"

Anderson bites his lip, debating whether to risk it. "I know you don't like to, but...just this once?"

"I don't bottom, Anderson," Keith says, not unkindly.

"No, I meant...." He hesitates again. "Could you suck me off?"

"I don't swallow, either. And I don't like come in my mouth."

"That's fine," Anderson says quickly. "I'll warn you when I get close."

Keith nods. "Okay. Just this once."

 

He calls Jon the next day, to apologize for rushing off. "Not a problem," Jon says. "Just don't ever tell me why you and Olbermann had to go so quickly."

Anderson laughs, and then puts on his best casual tone and asks, "So was it you or Stephen who made the reservations?"

"Keith did," Jon says, surprised. "He just invited us along."

"Oh," Anderson says, feeling a stupid grin on his face.

There's a moment of silence from Jon, then, "Everything okay with you two?"

"Excellent."

 

_**Six** _

The advance team leaves for their first major  _Planet in Peril: Battle Lines_  shoot on the day after Anderson's birthday. Neil, following Mary Ann and Phil, their second cameraman, out of the newsroom, pats Anderson on the back as he walks past. "See you in a few days, mate," he says.

Anderson smiles. "Try not to lose any equipment this time."

"Tell that to the airlines!" Phil calls over his shoulder.

"And the gorillas," Neil adds. "Can you believe Charlie wants me to ask how you get a camera back if a gorilla grabs it?"

"I'm pretty sure you just let them have it," Anderson laughs.

"That's what  _I_  said"--Neil points toward Charlie's office--"but Mr. EP in there is sure there's another way."

"I'll try to talk some sense into him," Anderson says. "Have a good flight." Neil gives him a  _better you than me_  look and jogs off to catch up with Phil and Mary Ann.

Charlie's office door is closed, and he doesn't answer Anderson's knock, so after a few seconds Anderson pushes it open and steps halfway inside. "Got a minute?"

"Make it a quick one," Charlie says, not looking up from his computer. "I'm swamped."

Anderson comes in, shuts the door, and takes his usual seat on the edge of Charlie's desk. "Well, first, I just wanted to echo Neil's suggestion that when an eight-hundred-pound mountain gorilla grabs your camera, you let him keep it. Second, I wanted to say you're doing an excellent job producing this thing, and I'm really proud of you. You've come a long way from being an intern."

"First," Charlie says, still looking at his computer, "we don't have the budget to replace a camera that a gorilla decided to make into a toy, and second, I still have plenty of time to fuck it up. But thanks. Now get off my desk. I need that fax you're sitting on."

Standing up, Anderson hands the fax to Charlie, who takes it with only a glance and a hurried smile at him. He makes sure to shut the door again on his way out.

 

There's four days before he has to leave, and he makes the most of it with Keith, who's been in a great mood since the birthday dinner. They spend most of Saturday in bed, and Anderson doesn't even mind that Keith goes out for a few hours with Rachel that night to some new bar she wanted to check out. He's allowed to have friends of his own the same as Anderson is, after all. Sunday is filled with last-minute details and packing, but he still manages to find time to give Keith a blowjob in the shower before dropping Molly off with Josh. And then he's at the airport with Charlie, Sanjay, and the rest of the team, boarding their flight. Anderson has a window seat, and during takeoff he watches his and Keith's building as it gets smaller and smaller, until he can't see it anymore. 

 

Because they're the trio with the most experience traveling together, he and Charlie are sharing a room with Neil. When they arrive, they find him passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. Anderson looks at the single bed and then, awkwardly, at Charlie. "I guess he figured we wouldn't mind sharing."

Charlie drops his bag by his feet. "It's fucking hot in here," he says, and pulls his t-shirt over his head before bending to unzip the bag and stuff it inside. Then he straightens, undoes the fly of his jeans, and lets them slide to his feet, and Anderson turns away quickly. Charlie's right; it  _is_  hot. He crosses to the bed and busies himself with stripping off the blanket.

_Keith. Remember him?_

He sneaks another glance at Charlie, who is bent over again, shoving his jeans into his bag.

_Keith, Keith, Keith._

He should've considered how to handle this while he was still in New York, not jet-lagged and trapped in the same room -- the same goddamn bed -- as a practically-naked Charlie. Not that he expects anything to happen with Neil there, but at some point they're going to be alone together, and then what is he supposed to say?  _Sorry, we can't be fuck-buddies, or whatever the hell we are, anymore, because I'm in a serious relationship now. Oh, and I'm also sorry for breaking our rules by talking about it_? Yeah, that'd be good.

Charlie brushes past him, and Anderson tenses but doesn't jump through sheer force of will. He watches as Charlie climbs into the bed, tugs the top sheet over himself and turns so his back is to Anderson. Trying to ignore the way his body is wired to respond to such images, Anderson opens his pack and takes out a prescription bottle of Ambien. "Want a sleeping pill?" he asks Charlie. "My doctor says they help with the jet-lag."

"I'm fine," Charlie says. "I didn't sleep much last night."

Anderson swallows the pill dry and then takes his jeans off and folds them neatly on top of the pack. He leaves his t-shirt on, though, and shoves the other half of the sheet over to Charlie's side of the bed before lying down. Better to keep as many layers between them as the heat allows.

 

Ambien knocks him out quickly, but it also makes him groggy in the morning. So it takes longer than it should to realize Charlie is spooning him with his arm around Anderson's waist, and a few seconds longer than that to notice Neil is awake, too. He's sitting on the couch, drinking from a bottled water, and when Anderson catches his eye, he shrugs, tucks a bundle of clothes under his arm, and leaves the room. Anderson sighs. _Could've gone worse._

Then he glances down and sees the tent in his boxers.

 

Neil doesn't say anything when he comes back in. All three of them move around the room and each other, getting ready for the day in silence, and Anderson isn't sure that the awkwardness isn't all in his head.  _Why would it be any more awkward than it's always been for them?_  he thinks.  _As far as they know, nothing has changed._  And he knows he needs to tell Charlie about Keith, but he can't think how.

 

He gets his chance outside, while they're waiting for their rides to the gorilla preservation. The others are far enough away from him and Charlie that Anderson feels confident he won't be overheard, so he says, "Listen, about...us--"

"It's fine," Charlie interrupts, not looking at him.

"It's just that--"

"--you're in love with Keith Olbermann. I know." Charlie's tone is calm until he glances over at Anderson. Then it becomes exasperated. "You thought I hadn't noticed? You started taking the wrong train home about three months ago, around the same time you started mentioning him constantly."

Anderson frowns. "If I'm that obvious, why hasn't anyone said anything?"

"Dunno," Charlie says, shrugging. "Maybe you aren't that obvious to them." He walks away before Anderson can ask what he means.

 

Anderson has been to see the gorillas seven or eight times over the past twenty years. He's the only one of the CNN people who truly knows what a hike it is, and even he has forgotten the worst of it. 

He's near the end of the line, followed by Phil, who is weighed down with a camera and equipment and panting heavily before they're halfway there. Charlie calls back encouragements to him in such a cheerful way that Anderson knows he's just doing it to be annoying. When he has the breath, Phil shouts back that Charlie is a Southern mountain goat of dubious parentage, and invites him to take the damn camera if he thinks it's so easy. To which Charlie says, "Can't. I'm too busy executive producing." After that, one of the guides tells them they need to be quiet because they're entering the gorillas' territory, so Anderson is pretty sure he's the only one to hear Phil's muttered response -- something about executive producing his foot right up Charlie's ass.

They spend longer with the gorillas than Anderson has ever been allowed before, when he was merely a tourist, and this is a different group of them, one that isn't as used to people. For most of it, they just crouch on the ground, watching and filming, all of them struck a little dumb by the experience. When they do talk, it has to be in whispers, which gives it a worshipful feeling, like the clearing they're in is a church. It's over too soon.

 

That night at the hotel, Charlie lies down on the couch, and Neil takes the other half of the bed without comment.

 

One of the jeeps gets a flat tire on the way to the village where they're meeting up with bushmeat hunters in Cameroon. Anderson gathers around it with the crew and their local guides and makes agreeing noises to everything they say, like that'll make them think he has any idea how to fix it. Luckily, the others really do seem to know what they're doing. Someone gets some tools from the back of the other jeep and they set to work. Anderson figures he'd probably be in the way if he tried to help, and retreats to the side of the dirt road, pulling out his BlackBerry. It has international service, and he's been surprised by having reception in more remote areas than this.

There's a single bar on the indicator, probably not enough to make a phone call. He walks up the road one way and then down the other, trying to find a sweet spot where the signal will be stronger, but that's as good as it gets.  _Might as well give it a shot,_  he thinks, pulling up Keith's name in his contacts list.

It takes a few seconds longer than usual, but eventually it does start to ring. Anderson bites at his fingernail absently, already thinking about what he'll say when Keith picks up.  _I miss you. I'd like to take you to see the gorillas sometime. Charlie knows about us. Do you miss me?_

It rings and rings, and then a pleasant female voice says, "Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system," and Anderson has his thumb over the disconnect button, but then Keith's voice starts his personalized greeting, and he hesitates, listening to it just because he misses Keith's voice. 

"If you have this number, you know who this is. Sorry I can't answer right now. I'm probably on TV or making something to put on TV. Leave a message and I'll get back to you when I can."

The beep catches Anderson off guard, so his words stumble over each other as he says, "Uh, hey. It's me. Um. We hit a minor setback on the way to our next place, but it should be fixed soon. Anyway. I just wanted to talk to you, so, um, call me back when you get this. Or actually, don't. I'll probably be in a jungle somewhere. I'll, uh, call you back tonight, if I can. I miss you. Bye." He hangs up and slides his phone back into his pocket.

The tire is still being fixed by a small group of people, while the rest of them are milling around in the middle of the road. Sanjay is holding his handheld camera at arm's length, talking to it. Something for the blog, probably. He turns in a circle, and Anderson watches Charlie do a sort of backwards dance to stay out of the shot. Not that Sanjay would mind -- it's supposed to be a behind-the-scenes blog, after all -- but Charlie has always been uncomfortable when he's in front of a camera lens instead of behind a control panel. It makes him feel scrutinized and lacking.

Anderson blinks.  _How do I know that?_

Charlie must've told him at some point, but he can't remember when. It sounds like the sort of thing Charlie would say in one of his drunk, melancholic moods. Anderson doesn't puzzle over it for long. Thinking about Charlie drunk is too close to thinking about Charlie naked.

 

_**Seven** _

He returns home to find Keith tying his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. Anderson stands in the doorway and admires the way his boyfriend looks in a full suit. It's a few moments before Keith notices him.

"Oh, you're back."

"Right when I said I'd be," Anderson says, raising an eyebrow. He steps behind Keith and wraps his arms around him, presses his cheek against Keith's broad back. "Where're you going dressed like that? And on a Saturday night when I've just gotten home from a week away?"

"Business dinner," Keith says. "It's for Rachel more than me. I can't go into detail."

"Will she be there?"

"No, not for this one."

"Mmm." Anderson relaxes into him. "Going to be late?"

"In all likelihood." Keith pulls away from Anderson's embrace, making him sway forward momentarily before he regains his balance, and turns around. "Help me with my cuffs?"

"Sure," Anderson says, picking up one of the cufflinks Keith has set on the bathroom counter. He takes Keith's hand in his and twists it so he can see the cuff better in the overhead light. "Did you miss me?" he asks as he fastens it, not really expecting an answer. He knows Keith doesn't do well with expressing feelings. Anderson doesn't even look up to see his reaction to the question, which is why he's surprised when Keith leans down and kisses him. It's brief, but forceful, like Keith is giving him a stamp of approval with his lips.

"If I didn't know you're jet-lagged to hell right now, I'd ask you to wait up for me."

Anderson smiles. "I will, if you want me to."

"No"--Keith shakes his head--"you need your sleep, and I don't know when I'm going to be back. These things always take too long."

"Okay," Anderson says, "but tomorrow, we're making up for lost time." He fastens the other cufflink, tugs Keith's tie a quarter-inch to the right, and steps back to look him over. "Devastating," he pronounces.

"And when Anderson Cooper uses that word, you know he's serious," Keith says dryly. He turns and examines himself in the mirror. "Think they'll give me everything I want?"

"I don't see how they could deny you."

 

Anderson wakes up late the next morning, just as alone in the bed as he was when he went to sleep. He pads down the hallway to the bathroom in his boxers and t-shirt, then toward the living room, frowning as the scent of coffee hits his nose.

"Keith, are you making coffee?" he asks, still a few feet from the end of the hallway. "Do we even  _have_  a coffeemaker?"

"Uh, it's mine," says Rachel's voice. She leans sideways on the couch so Anderson can see her and holds up a Starbucks cup. "Wow, you must have a good sense of smell, to get it from over there."

Anderson blinks at her and wishes he'd put pants on. "Oh. Morning."

"For another hour, yep," she says.

Keith, he sees now, is standing by the liquor cabinet, pouring whiskey into a glass. He hands Rachel the bottle when he's done and she tips some into her coffee before giving it back to him. "We're having a celebration," Keith tells Anderson, looking very pleased as he takes a seat next to her. "The contract for  _The Rachel Maddow Show_  is being drawn up as we speak."

"Congratulations," Anderson says, but Rachel holds up her hand.

"Nothing is official until I sign it, and even thinking about signing it is giving me the heebie-jeebies, so can we please talk about something else? How was your trip?"

"It was good." Anderson decides going back for pants would look stupid now, so he crosses through the living room to the kitchen and starts making his protein shake at the breakfast bar. "Have you ever been to see the mountain gorillas in Rwanda?"

Rachel laughs. "No, I'm pretty much a dog person," she says. "I've been making friends with  _your_  dog, by the way. She's great." Molly is sitting by her feet, and Rachel reaches down to pet her. "We should introduce her and my Poppy sometime."

"We should," Anderson agrees, thinking  _Traitor_  at Molly. Which he knows is completely irrational. Even more irrational is when he takes his shake over to the couch and drops down into the space between Keith and Rachel. He practically has to sit on Keith's lap to fit.

"There's another chair right over there," Keith says pointedly.

Anderson gives him his best  _but I'm adorable_  look. "I'm cold, you're warm. And anyway, I want to celebrate, too. Although I'll skip the whiskey. Wouldn't go well with a protein shake." He smiles at Rachel, who, annoyingly, doesn't look the least bit uncomfortable.

"You could try putting some clothes on," Keith grumbles. But he doesn't make Anderson move, so he'll count it as a win.

"Well, then." Rachel holds her coffee up. "To my show." Anderson and Keith each hold up their own glasses, and they all drink together. After she swallows, Rachel asks, "Were either of you this terrified when you first got your shows?"

Anderson says, "Yes," at the same time that Keith says, "No." Rachel and Anderson both frown at him. "Though to be fair," Keith continues, "my show wasn't my  _first_  show."

"Right," Rachel says, "I forgot how old you are."

At the look Keith gives her, Anderson can't help himself. He starts giggling. One more thing to irrationally hold against Rachel.

 

The time until the next  _Planet in Peril_  shoot passes too quickly, especially considering how often Keith is out late with Rachel at "strategy meetings," as he calls them. He comes back from them full of new plans and ideas for Rachel's show and tells them all to Anderson as he gets undressed for bed, until one night Anderson snaps, "I don't  _care_. You'd think it was  _your_  show, the way you're going on about it. Can we have one fucking night where you don't talk about her?"

Keith stares down at him with his thumbs still hooked in the waistband of the jeans he was about to take off. "Pardon me for being excited for, and proud of, a friend," he says stiffly.

Anderson rolls over on the bed so his back is to Keith and hugs a pillow to his chest. "There's excited and proud, and then there's obsessed," he says. A moment later, all the covers are pulled off of him. He glares over his shoulder. "Hey!"

"Go sleep on the couch, or, better yet, in your own bed in your own damn apartment," Keith says. "I don't have time or patience for your jealous tantrums."

"I am not jealous," Anderson says, which is such an obvious lie that Keith doesn't even bother responding. He takes his pillow and stomps down the hallway to the linen closet for another blanket to use on the couch.

Halfway through the night, he gets fed up with the crick in his neck and sneaks back to the bedroom. Keith doesn't comment on him being there in the morning, but after that, he seems to make an effort to mention Rachel less. Anderson, in turn, tries not to mind as much when he does.

 

"Keith."

"Uhnnn."

"Come on, Keith. Wake up and fuck me."

Keith cracks his eyes open and squints up at Anderson, who is on his hands and knees, straddling him, and then over at the alarm clock. He groans again. "Go jerk off. Some of us have to work today, you know."

"But it might be your last chance to fuck me," Anderson says, grinning. "I'm leaving tonight to go swimming with sharks, remember?"

"And what idiot came up with that idea again? Oh, yeah."

"Keeeith."

Keith sighs, but he rolls them over and pins Anderson to the bed. "Pest," he says. "Does risking your life always make you this horny? What did you do before I came along to fix it?"

Luckily, he doesn't wait for an answer before attacking Anderson's neck, because Anderson can't very well say,  _I waited for my producer to get drunk_.

 

The airport has MSNBC playing on the TV by the gate where he and the crew are waiting for their flight to board. It's muted, of course, so Anderson has to try to read Keith's lips and imagine his voice. He can't see the segment titles from this distance, but whatever Keith's talking about must be good news. He seems happy.

Halfway through, the camera switches to a wider angle to reveal Rachel sitting at his desk with him. Anderson looks away and catches Charlie's gaze for a split second before Charlie goes back to reading something on his phone.

 

They work up to the actual diving. First there's pieces to shoot with biologists who take a more hands-off approach with the sharks, and an interview with Mike Rutzen, the guy who dives with them for a living. They also do a few practice dives, because lessons at a swimming pool in Manhattan can only prepare you so much. That all takes days, but eventually Anderson is standing on a boat surrounded by water that's full of fish blood and sharks, and Mike is telling him it's time to get in.

It's a strange feeling.

He turns to Neil and says, "Remember, if I get eaten, just keep rolling. Because the only thing more stupid than being eaten would be to be eaten and not have it videotaped."

The camera is on, so Neil can't answer, but he gives Anderson a thumbs-up and a smirk.

"If you get eaten," Charlie says, "my career will be over, and I'll kill you. So don't, please." 

 

After the segment is shot, they go to a bar near the hotel. Anderson nurses a single drink, but the others aren't so restrained. He still feels slightly buzzed off the adrenaline, knows from experience that his body chemistry won't level out completely for another few hours. Mike is regaling them with stories, but Anderson can't focus. He glances at the clock on his BlackBerry, which is still on New York time, and decides to call Keith to let him know everything went okay. He dials as he slips outside, where it's dark and cool and quiet enough to hear the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

"Anderson?"

"Who else would it be?"

"Someone calling to let me know you got eaten?"

He snorts, leaning against the wall. "I don't think they'd use my phone for that."

"Probably," Keith agrees. "Went all right, then?"

"I'm still in one piece. It was incredible. Scary, but incredible." That only begins to cover it. The feelings are still too new to be put into words. They can wait until he hammers out the narration for the piece. Keith will understand.

"Good, good," Keith says, sounding distracted. "Sorry, something just broke. Talk to you tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Bye."

He ends the call and stands there for a few more seconds, not feeling like going back inside. Maybe he'll go for a walk to shake off some of this restlessness, he thinks.

"Wondered where you'd got to."

He turns his head and meets Charlie's gaze. The alcohol isn't showing yet in his voice, but Anderson can see it in his eyes and posture.

"I needed to call someone," he says, and then wonders why he didn't say who. It's not like Charlie doesn't know. But saying Keith's name to him would feel...wrong.

"I was thinking of going back to the hotel," Charlie says. "Want to go with me?"

Anderson's not naive; never has been. He opens his mouth, the "no" forming on his tongue, and Charlie says, "I was counting the seconds you were under that water."

"Yes."

 

The desk clerk barely looks up from his magazine as they cross the lobby and board an elevator. When the doors slide closed, Charlie moves toward him, but Anderson moves back. "Security cameras," he says.

"Bet they don't even watch them," says Charlie, but he stops. They look at each other's reflections in the mirrored doors and keep their hands in their pockets.

The doors open again. Charlie steps out first and turns to the right. "My room."

"No, mine," says Anderson, catching his arm. "Farther away from the crew."

Charlie smirks at him. "Planning on being loud?"

"I was thinking more about not being seen," Anderson answers. He turns, dropping Charlie's arm, and walks away. After a few seconds, he hears the footsteps following.

Once the door is safely locked behind them, Anderson makes short work of his clothes and lies down on his stomach with his knees spread and his back arched to push his ass up. The wantonness of the pose echoes the way he's feeling, but when Charlie, equally naked, crawls up behind him, he tries to pull Anderson over onto his back.

Anderson shrugs him off. "Like this," he says.

"I want to see your face."

"You  _can_  see my face," Anderson says, looking over his shoulder.

"You won't do that when you come," Charlie says. "You'll forget, and I want to see your face when you come."

"Like this, or not at all." Anderson isn't sure why he's insisting, but Charlie gives in. He braces himself over Anderson on one arm and uses his other hand and his teeth to twist open a small, single-use bottle of lube. Anderson tries not to think about why he came prepared, if he was expecting this or even planning it, and then Charlie's finger is pushing into him and making it much easier not to think at all. He pushes back, moaning a welcome to the small amount of pain. "More."

Charlie is dropping kisses over his shoulder blades and spine, murmuring, "Relax, babe," and, "Let me in," over and over against his skin. He moves up to Anderson's neck and starts using his teeth as he pushes a second finger in, and Anderson arches into his mouth and then jerks away, remembering.

"Don't leave marks," he says, panting. "We're going home tomorrow."

"Right. Sorry." Charlie rests his forehead against the crook of Anderson's shoulder, his sweaty hair tickling for a few seconds before he goes back on his heels.

Anderson watches him tear open a condom with his teeth and roll it onto himself. "Hurry," he says. Charlie is scissoring the fingers that are inside him and brushing against Anderson's prostate, but it's not nearly enough. Then he pulls out and uses that hand to guide his cock in, and Anderson groans and bites his lip, his eyes falling closed automatically.

"Look at me," Charlie says, pushing in deeper until he bottoms out. "Look at me." He sounds harsh, almost angry, but Anderson is too overwhelmed. He feels Charlie's hand, the one that isn't covered in lube, gripping his chin and forcing him to turn his head so Charlie can see his face. Anderson gathers himself enough to blink his eyes open, and Charlie says, "Andy," and kisses him as best as he can with the angle, tasting like alcohol, and starts thrusting.

Anderson's eyes are closed again. Charlie doesn't seem to mind. He speeds up, and Anderson rocks his hips too, and then Charlie gets his hand around Anderson's cock, so that with each movement he's fucking into Charlie's fist and then back around Charlie's dick, and it's not long at all before he's swearing and coming.

It's exactly what Anderson needs, except that it's Charlie.

When he's boneless, Charlie pulls out long enough to roll Anderson over and then pushes back into him, his arm hooked under one of Anderson's knees, and keeps going. Anderson lets him, only vaguely aware of Charlie's own orgasm.

 

Anderson dreams of Keith. He knows, in a dreaming sort of way, that it's just after he's gotten home. Maybe from this trip, maybe from another. It doesn't really matter. The main thing is, he was too tired when he got home to do more than strip off his clothes and climb into bed next to Keith. Now it's morning. He can see the room getting lighter through his eyelids. If he doesn't get up soon, the sunlight's going to stream through the window at the angle that always catches him full in the face, because of course Keith can't close the damn blinds when he's done taking pictures of a sunset. Anderson's about to mutter some kind of complaint about that when Keith's hand closes around his cock and his mutter turns into a soft moan. He's half-hard, like usual at this time of day, and Keith soon teases him to a full erection. Anderson arches his hips and gasps.  _Where has he been hiding_ that _move all this time?_

The covers rustle as Keith moves down the bed and closes his lips around him, and Anderson jerks fully awake. Not Keith. Charlie. Keith hates giving blowjobs; he'd never wake Anderson up with one. It  _is_  morning, but he's still in the hotel room, and the mouth bobbing over his cock is Charlie's. He opens his eyes and glances down to confirm it, but Charlie is just a vaguely human-shaped mound moving in obscene ways under the blanket. Anderson almost puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He doesn't feel turned on any more, only guilty. But then Charlie swallows him down entirely and  _hums_ , and it's been ages since Anderson's had a good blowjob.

 _Is it really cheating if I'm imagining he's Keith?_  he wonders. Yes, it is. He knows that and to pretend otherwise is a shit thing to do. He does it anyway, gripping the headboard with his hands so he doesn't reach down and tangle his fingers in Charlie's too-long hair, closing his eyes so he won't see Charlie if the blanket slips off.

Afterward, he keeps his eyes closed and listens to Charlie take a shower and leave, the door shutting softly behind him. Anderson locks it again before he goes into the bathroom for his own shower.

 

**_Eight_ **

_Out strategizing with Rachel._

The note is scrawled across the back of an envelope left on the kitchen counter, and as he stares at it, Anderson, perversely, feels only relief. It gives him a few more hours before he has to face Keith. He feeds Molly, drops his duffel bag in their bedroom to unpack later, and goes to take another shower. He knows it's just his imagination, but he can still smell Charlie on his skin.

 

Keith comes in past midnight. Anderson knows because he's sitting on the couch watching  _Saturday Night Live_  when he hears Keith's key in the lock and his footsteps as he enters the room.

"I didn't think you'd still be up."

"I couldn't sleep."

Keith frowns at Molly, who is lying next to Anderson with her head on his knee. "You know I don't like her on the furniture."

"Sorry," Anderson says, and gives her a gentle shove. "Down, girl." She grumbles at him, but obeys.

"No jet-lag?"

He pulls the knee Molly had been on up to his chest and hugs it. "I guess the insomnia is stronger than it."

"Hmm." Keith puts a hand on Anderson's shoulder, and he tries very hard not to flinch. There's a familiar, predatory gleam in Keith's gaze when he dares to look up. "Why don't you come to bed and I'll tire you out?"

"No, thanks," Anderson says, breaking eye contact and refocusing on the TV. He feels Keith hesitate before withdrawing his hand.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks, sounding somewhere between concerned and amused. "You've never turned down sex before."

 _That's more the truth than you know,_  Anderson thinks bitterly. Aloud, he says, "I'm fine. I'm just going to finish watching this and then I'll be in to sleep. Don't let me keep you up."

Keith stands there for another few seconds, long enough for Anderson's pulse to double, sure he's about to be confronted. But then he says, "Okay. Good night," and walks away. As soon as he's gone, Anderson closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward against his knee.

 

"Sleep w--?"

Keith's question is cut off with a grunt when Anderson pushes him back into the edge of the kitchen counter. He doesn't give him time to finish, just drops to his knees, pulls Keith's cock out, and starts sucking.

" _Christ,_  Anderson."

Anderson hums around him, and Keith puts his right hand on the back of Anderson's head, his left gripping the counter like he needs help staying upright. His cock is twitching and filling in Anderson's mouth, growing so big that Anderson has to back off of it a little and use his hand to cover what he can't fit. He flicks his tongue along the underside of it and is rewarded with a groan.

He knows he could have Keith coming in just minutes, knows exactly what Keith likes. But finishing it quickly would defeat the point of this, so he draws it out instead, giving Keith enough to keep him more than happy but not pushing him over. Anderson stays there, on his knees until they, and his jaw, and his cock -- which he isn't touching -- are all aching equally.

_Now._

He opens his mouth even wider, relaxes his throat, and swallows Keith down.

Keith tries to pull back as he comes, but he doesn't have room with the counter behind him, and Anderson pushes forward to regain the couple of inches he lost, holds Keith there until he's done. When Anderson finally does let go, he's coughing and his eyes are watering.

"Okay?" Keith asks. Anderson nods and leans against Keith's thigh until he's got his breath back. "Want me to finish you off?"

"I'll take care of it," he says, his voice hoarse. "Your cereal is probably soggy now."

He uses the counter to pull himself upright and walks on unsteady legs to the bathroom, where he strips, turns the shower on freezing, and steps into it.  _There_ , he thinks.  _I did my penance._

 _Isn't penance supposed to make you feel less guilty, though?_  

 

Things slowly get more normal. The guilt doesn't go away, but it's mitigated, somewhat, by the jealousy and resentment that starts to build again as Keith spends more and more time with Rachel leading up to her show's premiere. Anderson doesn't think he has a right to complain about it, but that doesn't stop the feelings.

At work, he avoids being alone with Charlie, which isn't too difficult. Even when they're in an editing room, recording voiceovers and cutting together footage from the trips, someone else is always there. And Charlie has been too busy for months to drop by Anderson's office casually, like he used to.

 

Already the 2008 hurricane season promises to rival 2005. Anderson has half his attention on the storms building off the coast when they leave for the Democratic convention in Denver. There's talk of him not going to the convention at all, but he fights for it. He wants to be there with Keith, even though they don't have time to spend together and have to stay in separate hotels.

Jon, despite being insanely busy as well, carves out some time to see him while Anderson does a bit for  _The Daily Show_. His part, as Jon puts it, is to "stand there, innocently batting your baby blues, while my correspondents surround you and look at you like you're a piece of meat they want to gang-bang. Which, between us, isn't much of a stretch for them."

After, he sneaks Jon onto the CNN Election Express bus and shows him the ridiculously expensive retractable television. Jon hits the power button and cracks up laughing. "Why is it on Lifetime?"

"I have no idea," Anderson says. "Probably Jack Gray. Earlier all the associate producers were in here taking hits off an oxygen tank. It supposedly helps with the altitude or helps you stay awake or something."

"Boy, you CNNers," Jon says, still giggling. "You sure know how to party hard."

Anderson gets a flash of alcohol-hazed memory from the first time he slept with Charlie, accompanied by a twist of guilt.  _Yeah, we sure do,_  he thinks.

 

That turns out to be the highpoint of Anderson's week. The rest of it passes in a blur of speeches, interviews, and company-enforced schmoozing at the CNN Grill. He barely has time to text Keith, and Keith must be even busier, because he never replies. By the end of it, Anderson is glad to be heading directly to New Orleans to cover Hurricane Gustav and Katrina's third anniversary. 

 

He spends most of their two-hour special talking about politics -- which is how he prefers it, really. He's never liked the contrived nature of anniversary shows, and simply being in the city as it prepares for another storm is enough to get him emotional without having to recap the last one  _ad nauseam_.

The next day, he, Charlie, Neil, and Kay, their associate producer for the trip, get to work touring the city, seeing how much better off it is this time. There's only one restaurant open in the French Quarter when they're done, filled with cops and other reporters. The chef takes their order himself and promises Anderson the best crab cakes he's ever tasted.

Once he's gone, Charlie leans over and asks, "Bring back memories?" into Anderson's ear. Anderson frowns at him, not sure if he means the day in general, or--

_Oh._

He looks at their surroundings more closely, and yep, this is the place where they got drunk before that first time. It might even be the same cops sitting at the bar. Charlie sees the recognition in his eyes and smiles at him. Anderson shakes his head. Charlie nods. They both turn down offers of drinks that night.

 

Gustav is two categories weaker than Katrina was, but seems to hit just as hard. They're knocked off air five minutes before broadcast one night and have to scramble to relocate to a more sheltered spot and set up again. Fortunately, they're only doing live updates during the network's RNC coverage, not a full show, so they can retreat to a car between shots and try to warm up and dry off a bit.

Each time, Anderson, for want of anything better to do, carefully dries his hands, takes his BlackBerry out of the waterproof inner pocket of his CNN slicker, and checks it for messages from Keith. He doesn't get any, but then, he's not expecting to. Keith is on air himself. Probably with Rachel, who is offering some brilliant, charming piece of analysis of the Republicans' convention, and Keith is smiling at her.

Anderson shoves the image out of his head and puts his BlackBerry back in his pocket.

 

CNN sends them from Gustav to Ike, in Texas. Anderson calls Keith to let him know as they drive across the state border.

"Okay."

"I'm not sure when I'm going to be home," Anderson says, his voice low in hope that Charlie, sitting across the back seat from him, won't overhear, "but I'll tell you as soon as I know."

"Fine."

"I miss you."

There's silence for a few seconds.

"It's all right," Anderson says, rolling his eyes. "You don't have to say it back. Bye."

 

He's nearly killed that night.

They've set up with the satellite truck parked between two buildings to shield it from the worst of the wind, like usual, but a brick wall for a backdrop makes for a pretty boring shot. They leave Kay there to run the truck while Charlie scouts out nearby locations and settles on a concrete loading ramp just around the corner. It has a railing they can tether Anderson to if necessary, and enough of an overhang on the building that Neil and the camera can stay mostly dry while they show Anderson in the rain with trees blowing sideways in the distance.

It works perfectly until right after he signs off for the night. He turns to undo the tether Charlie had insisted on “just in case," and a second later he hears a yell from Neil or Charlie or both, and then, almost simultaneously, a horrendous  _crash_  as a steel plate falls from the roof into the railing, inches to the left of where he's standing. He jumps away as the wind catches it and blows it like a leaf down the street.

There's a huge gouge in the railing where the plate hit. Anderson stares at it, dumbfounded, thinking,  _That could have been my head_ , and then Charlie grabs his arm and tries to pull him back under the overhang. The tether stops him.

"Fuck!" Charlie says. "Neil, put the fucking camera down and undo that! Anderson, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine. I'm okay," Anderson says, not quite believing it himself. He stands still and takes a mental inventory of his body. Apart from being cold and wet, he doesn't feel anything wrong.

Charlie is trying to undo the knot in the tether at Anderson's waist, but his hands are shaking. "You're sure?" he asks. "Shit, I could kill myself for picking this spot! We should've stuck with the boring, sheltered one. Neil! Do you have that undone yet? We need to get out of here."

"It's too tight," Neil shouts over the wind. "Do you have a knife?"

"Let me," Anderson says, pushing Charlie's hands away. His own are much steadier, and he has the knot untied in a few seconds.

"Neil, get the camera and run," Charlie says. He pushes Anderson down the ramp ahead of him with his hand on Anderson's shoulder. As they reach the bottom, the truck pulls up and Kay throws open the back door for them.

"You guys okay?" she shouts. "I saw that happen, but then Neil put the camera down--"

"We're fine," Anderson says as he climbs in. "It just missed us."

"It just missed  _you_ ," Charlie corrects, and then collapses into the seat next to Anderson and buries his face in his hands. "Jesus  _fuck._ "

Neil, in the passenger seat with his camera on his lap, says, "Let's get back to the hotel."

"Yes," Anderson says, starting to laugh. "Good plan." Kay frowns at him, which only makes him laugh harder.

"Don't worry," Neil says. "It's not a concussion. He's always been a lunatic."

Kay shakes her head and shifts the truck into gear.

 

The first thing he does at the hotel is take a long, hot shower, until his bones feel warm again. Then he dries off throughly and digs out a clean set of pajamas from his bag. Flannel pajamas are a luxury he allows himself on hurricane assignments, because they make him forget the feeling of being cold and wet. He puts the pants on and has just shouldered into the shirt when there's a knock at his door, so he leaves the buttons undone and goes to answer it, thinking the hotel might want to move them to another floor for safety. 

But when he opens it, Charlie is standing -- or  _swaying_ , rather -- in the hallway.

Anderson stares at him. "Where the hell did you get alcohol around here?" he asks. "Are you bringing it with you now?"

"Minibar," Charlie says, like that should be obvious, which, yeah. "Can I come in?"

"No. Go to bed and try to figure out how you're going to explain the minibar bill to CNN," Anderson says. He shuts the door in Charlie's face and then puts the chain on, to be on the safe side.

"Fine," Charlie says through it. " _My_  door's open."

Anderson listens to him walk away.  _Keith. I should call Keith._

Keith doesn't answer the first or second time he tries. Halfway through the third, he hangs up before Keith's stupid voicemail greeting starts again, drops his BlackBerry on the nightstand, and picks his bag up off the floor. There's a side pocket he never cleans out because the zipper sticks. He yanks it open with one sharp tug, and the condom and bottle of lube he remembers are still there. He grabs them and his keycard.

 

_**Nine** _

Charlie opens the door before Anderson can knock. "Knew you'd come," he says, stepping back.

Almost as soon as Anderson is in the room, Charlie is yanking his wet t-shirt over his head. Anderson reaches behind himself to turn the lock, and Charlie steps closer, hands gripping Anderson's hips and mouth nibbling on his neck. Anderson has to push him away so he can take his own shirt off. Charlie takes the opportunity to drop to his knees, licking Anderson's erection through the flannel. Anderson lets him do it for a few seconds, digging his fingers into Charlie's shoulder when he exhales on the damp spot he's made, then steps back. "Bed. C'mon."

He stumbles a bit as he stands, and Anderson grabs his arm to steady him, looking at him questioningly. "Just lightheaded 'cause all my blood's in my dick," Charlie says, laughing. Anderson decides to believe that's true, rather than it being because Charlie's more drunk than he seems. He nods, but keeps his hand on Charlie's arm until he's safely seated on the bed. "Take your pants off," Charlie says, shoving them down, his nails scratching faint white lines down Anderson's thighs.

"Jesus, you're impatient tonight," Anderson says. "Why didn't you change out of your wet clothes?"

"Getting to it." Charlie lies back on the bed and unbuttons his jeans, then lifts his hips and strips them off without bothering with the zipper. He isn't wearing anything underneath them, so now he's completely naked. He props himself up on his elbows and watches through half-closed eyes as Anderson steps out of his pants.

"Here." Anderson holds out the condom, keeping the bottle for himself.

"You put it on," Charlie says.

Anderson looks at him a moment and then asks, "Have you ever done that?" because he hasn't with  _him_ , as far as he can remember (he's still not sure about the first night).

"Yes."

So he shrugs and hands over the lube instead. He doesn't mind either way.

Charlie pats the blanket beside him. "Lie down on your back," he says.

Anderson rolls the condom on and does, and this is another thing they've never done before. Charlie takes only a few seconds to prepare himself, and then he's kneeling, swinging one rain-damp leg over Anderson's thighs and reaching behind himself to take Anderson's cock in his hand and line them up. 

 _Fuck_ , Anderson thinks, clutching at the blanket with both hands.  _Goddamn fuck, he's tight_. His eyes have shut involuntarily. He opens them again and catches a grimace of pain crossing Charlie's face. Moving his right hand to Charlie's hip, he says, "Hey, take your time. I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm fine," Charlie says through gritted teeth. He takes a deep breath and then exhales, sinking down further. Anderson can't help the moan that escapes him, though he knows that Charlie is uncomfortable. He forces himself to hold still and watches as Charlie catches his breath.

 _He's too messed up to be doing this right now._ "Really, you don't--"

"Anderson. Shut up."

Anderson doesn't talk after that, though he does start to moan again when Charlie finally moves. Charlie is muttering things he can't quite hear, using both hands to steady himself against Anderson's chest, moving at an impossible pace. Anderson reaches for his cock, but Charlie shoves him away and then slows enough to lean down and catch Anderson's bottom lip between his teeth for a few seconds. Anderson cups the back of his head, holding him there and turning the bite into a short, messy kiss before Charlie pulls back and speeds up again.

He's not going to last through much more of this. It isn't just how fast Charlie's riding him. It's the leftover adrenaline in his body from the close call earlier and the desperate edge Charlie has, which has completely taken Anderson by surprise. He's seen it before, but only when they're doing this in the midst of some major tragedy, half as a way to comfort each other and half as a defiant middle finger to all the bad things in the world. He doesn't know what brought it out this time, but it always winds him up quickly. He holds on for as long as he can.

It's not long. "I'm gonna--" He tries to warn Charlie, but breaks off into another moan.

Charlie's mutterings become audible for the first time and he locks his eyes with Anderson's. "Yes, do it. Come for me.  _Fucking do it._ "

Anderson slams his hips against Charlie's once, and then again and again, and shouts hoarsely as he comes. Charlie presses down on him just as hard as Anderson is pressing up, and wraps his hand around his own cock. He's barely stroked himself twice before he's coming too, arching his back and shooting all over Anderson's stomach and chest.

"Fuck," Anderson says once he's caught his breath enough to speak. His eyelids flutter closed, and he can't quite gather the energy to open them again. He feels Charlie climb off him and peel the condom away, and then he hears the bathroom sink running, so it's not a surprise when there's a warm washcloth wiping him clean a few seconds later. "Thanks," he says, aiming for where he thinks Charlie's side is and patting it. From the feel of it, it's probably his ass.

Charlie grunts in response. There's a wet  _plop_  as he drops the washcloth on the floor somewhere and then the side of the bed dips. Anderson moves over obligingly to make room for him. He's already half asleep when Charlie lies down and spreads a blanket over them.

 

Charlie's eyes are open and following Anderson's hands as he buttons up his shirt. Anderson turns away. Somehow, Charlie watching him dress feels more intimate than Charlie helping him undress. It makes him uncomfortable. And more than that, it's a breach of their unspoken rules -- the one about not acknowledging it the morning after. Anderson had thought that rule was for Charlie's benefit more than his own, but he finds he's almost angry at Charlie for breaking it, even in this minor way.  _He could at least_ pretend  _to be asleep._  He leaves without looking back to see if he's still being watched.

 

The guilt is easier to live with this time -- or Anderson is more used to it. He's not sure which. He almost doesn't notice the twist in his stomach when Charlie walks by at work, the way his pulse picks up every time Keith looks at him. That shimmer of fear is his comfort zone.

 

It says something about their industry that even in the insanely hectic period prior to a major election, they take time out for patting each other on the back. Anderson usually tries to avoid awards dinners, but Keith is going to this one, and he's lured by the idea that it could almost be a date. Between the conventions and the hurricanes, they've spent far too little time together for weeks.

"Are we taking the same car?" he asks Keith as they put on their tuxes, and gets a frown in reply.

"Why wouldn't we?"

"Room full of journalists? Someone might notice?"

Keith shakes his head and goes back to tying his shoelaces. "The party's on the roof. No one will see us arrive if we time it right."

Now Anderson frowns. "It's on the roof? Won't that get chilly?"

"You've really never been to one of these things, have you?" Keith asks, amused. "It's in the Weather Room at Top of the Rock. There's an indoor dining area and an open-air deck with a bar. They do the awards inside and then you're free to wander in and out as you please."

"Oh."

 

The seating during the awards is divided by network. Anderson should've seen that coming and at least  _attempted_  to prepare himself for a couple hours of watching Keith and Rachel -- who was invited even though technically she's not an MSNBC host for another couple of weeks -- laughing with each other across the room, but he's a fucking idiot. He doesn't eat much and lets Charlie and the other producers collect the handful of awards they're given.

When it's finally over, all the other MSNBC people go outside while Rachel and Keith stay behind, talking. Anderson makes his way through the crowd to them and musters the politest smile he can for Rachel. "Give us a minute?"

"Sure," she says. "I'm going to commandeer the bar."

Once she's gone, Anderson drops into her empty chair. "Yes?" Keith asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Anderson shifts closer and bumps his foot against Keith's under the table. "I just want to say hi. And congratulations on your awards."

"You too."

"Luckily they stay in the newsrooms, or we'd have to clear some of your baseball stuff off the bookcase to make room for them," Anderson says, smiling.

"Luckily," Keith says, not smiling. He glances around the room. "Look, they might not have noticed us coming in the same car, but someone will definitely notice if we spend the whole night together."

"Right." Anderson moves back. "Of course. I should go say hello to my  _60 Minutes_  bosses, anyway." He gets up and leaves. When he looks back, Keith is walking off in the same direction that Rachel went.

 

He does say hello to the group from  _60 Minutes_ , and a few other people he's on friendly terms with, and then he finds the quietest spot on the deck, far from the bar, and tries to make it look like he's having a perfectly enjoyable time standing there alone with a champagne glass in his hand.

The deck is lined with coin-operated binoculars, like the ones at the top of the Empire State Building. Anderson sets his glass down on a cocktail table and pulls his wallet out to see if he has any change for one of them.

"Here."

It's Charlie, holding out a handful of quarters. Anderson hesitates, but not taking them would make it into a Thing, so he does.

"Nice night for it," Charlie says. He cranes his head back and looks up at the sky. "Think I see a star or two."

"Those are planes."

"Ah." Charlie nods, like he suspected as much. "Wasn't sure if they just looked like they were moving because I'm drunk. Are you gonna finish that champagne?"

"No," Anderson says, "but I don't think you should, either. Charlie, this drinking is--"

"Shhhhhhh." He presses his index finger against Anderson's lips, swaying forward so much that Anderson has to put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from falling. "The drinking isn't the problem," he whispers. "Trust me."

"Well, whatever it is--" Anderson starts to say, but he's cut off again, this time by Charlie's  _lips_ pressing against his.

Everything about it is wrong. They're in New York, surrounded by people they know. Keith is  _yards away,_  for fuck's sake. He pushes Charlie, hard enough that he stumbles and clutches the binoculars for support, then takes a step back himself so there's more than four feet of space between them.

"Sorry, just...not here," he says. He wants to say  _not ever again_.

"Why not? Keith wouldn't care," Charlie says, sounding offhand and much less drunk.

" _I_ care," Anderson snaps. "So would Keith." He ignores the twist of uncertainty in his gut, the little voice that asks,  _Would he, though?,_  and continues, "I'm not going to risk my relationship just because you're drunk and horny."

Charlie seems to find that funny. He looks out at the city skyline, and Anderson hears his low laughter. But when he turns back a few seconds later, his smile has an edge to it. "You really don't get it, do you?"

"Get  _what?"_  Anderson asks, rapidly loosing his last bit of patience.

"Nothing." Charlie shakes his head, still smirking like he has some private joke at Anderson's expense.

After a few seconds, when he doesn't clarify further, Anderson says, "Look, just find someone else when we're in New York, okay?" He starts to walk away.

"We'll always have New Orleans!" Charlie calls after him, mockingly, which draws a few looks from the crowd. Anderson ignores them all and doesn't stop walking.

 

He finds Keith sitting at the bar, watching as Rachel mixes a cocktail and explains the steps to the small group that has gathered around her. She's explaining that lemon juice comes from a real lemon when Anderson arrives, slides between two of his associate producers -- both of whom, he suspects, are more interested in Rachel than the drink -- and leans on the bar next to his boyfriend. "I'm pretty beat. You wanna get out of here?" he asks, rubbing Keith's forearm suggestively.

"I promised Rachel I'd let her make me something," Keith says, eyes fixed on the pundit in question as she begins to shake the drink. He catches Anderson's hand in his own, squeezes it, and moves it away from his arm. "You go. Don't wait up for me."

Anderson swallows and straightens up. "Okay."

 

When he wakes up the next morning, he is alone. There is no message from Keith, no sign that he was there, even briefly. Anderson's first thought is,  _He slept with Rachel._  But no, Rachel is a lesbian. Rachel has a partner she loves, and who loves her. The jealousy only grows stronger.  _Wouldn't that be nice?_

And there it is. The thing he's been avoiding for longer than he cares to admit. Possibly since the very first night when Keith had offered no explanation for why he couldn't stay.

_Christ, how much of an idiot can I be? With all my talk about facing my fears, I'm a fucking coward when it comes to relationships._

He takes a deep breath and says, "You don't love me," to Keith's empty bedroom. And for all that he's  _known_  that, he's still unprepared for how much admitting it hurts.

 

**_Ten_ **

There's being in denial about your sham of a relationship, and then there's having both eyes open and staying anyway. Anderson is aware of how pathetic he is, but he can't squash the hope that he can  _make_  Keith love him. He just needs to fight for it.

Clearly, Rachel has some quality that Anderson lacks, that he needs to emulate. So, for the next few weeks, if he has a choice between spending time with Keith and Rachel or not spending time with Keith at all, he takes the former. Which isn't to say that choice comes along often. Most of the time, Keith simply goes out with Rachel after work without consulting Anderson. He has to resort to getting her email from Keith's phone and inviting her to dinner with them on the night before her show premieres. She sends back,  _Thanks, that'll be a good distraction from my nerves_.

Anderson watches them discuss politics for the entire meal. Every so often some inside joke or another comes up and they both laugh. Rachel, at least, tries to explain what's so funny, but then Keith says something equally incomprehensible and starts them off again.

She's  _nice_ ; that's the worst part. It's like she's rubbing Anderson's nose in the fact that she doesn't deserve his resentment. He resents her anyway and tolerates the accompanying guilt. If the niceness is what Keith is attracted to, he's doomed.

In the meantime, he uses the one weapon he has -- his body -- to full advantage, from whispering, "Fuck me," into Keith's ear at an opportune but unexpected moment, to claiming he's out of clean clothes and wandering around the apartment half-naked until Keith grabs his ass and says, "Since you've got it out already...." Anderson has to take naps on his office couch in the afternoons to make up for the sleep he's missing, but sacrifices must be made in battles.

He has a speaking engagement at the University of Rochester one weekend, and he purposefully avoids sex with Keith for the week prior, going so far as to turn him down outright the night before he leaves.

"When did you start being so temperamental?" Keith grumbles, which Anderson takes as a good sign. 

"Sorry, but Stephen's going be here to pick me up early," he says. "I need my rest."

Keith's frown is illuminated by the city light coming through the window. "Why is he driving you?"

Anderson sighs. "I told you: he's speaking there too, so we're going to carpool up and back."

"Right," Keith says, like he doesn't remember.

 

The university puts them both up in a quiet, three-star hotel across town from the campus and the college bars that surround it. Stephen, of course, gets a dozen invitations to those bars after his speech and decides Anderson should join him. The result is Anderson slumped over a disturbingly sticky table in the middle of his fourth drink, telling Stephen it's all because of his excess flirtatious energy.

"If I hadn't done one of my Julia Roberts spazzes at him, this never would've happened!"

"Damn Julia Roberts and her spazzes," Stephen says, nodding like this makes complete sense. Then he frowns. "Does she spazz? I wasn't aware."

"She does in  _Runaway Bride_ ," Anderson says, and takes another gulp of his martini. Rachel, no doubt, would have things to say regarding gulping down a good cocktail like that. Fuck Rachel. "She has spazzes of flir-- flirta-- flirting. And so do I, and I had one all over Keith at that party and that's what-- hey, wait." He points at Stephen, and maybe his depth perception is a little wonky, because Stephen has to lean backward to avoid being poked in the nose. "That was  _your_  party. You and Evie. Some...charity thing."

"In January?" Stephen asks. "That was for UNICEF."

"Yeah, that. And  _Jon_  dragged me over to him. So this is really yours and Jon's fault."

"Don't forget UNICEF," Stephen says. He cocks his head to the side. "Just out of curiosity, what is it we're all being blamed for?"

"Keith." Anderson downs the rest of the martini in one swallow and thunks the empty glass on the table. "I need another drink." He stands up very slowly, managing not to stumble, but Stephen grabs his arm anyway.

"Why don't we go back the hotel first?" he asks. "You can raid my minibar. I'm not sure it's such a good idea for you to be getting more drunk here, while you're surrounded by college kids with cameras in their phones. You're about a martini and a half from karaoke Celine Dion songs -- or, y'know, saying something someone might overhear."

"I don't do  _Celine Dion_. God. I'm not a cliche."

"I apologize. Of course you aren't," Stephen says, though he sounds half in-character, so Anderson isn't sure it's genuine. "Stay right here and don't talk to anyone, not even yourself or the air, okay? I'm gonna go ask for a number to call a cab."

"I don't  _talk to the air_  either," Anderson says to his retreating back. Then he realizes what he's doing and shuts up.

 

 _Waking up in other men's hotel rooms is really getting to be a pattern_ , he thinks, opening his eyes sometime later to the sight of Stephen's suitcase.

"Good morning, Andypants. How're you feeling?" Stephen asks. He's sitting against the headboard next to Anderson, with a book open in one hand and a croissant in the other.

Anderson sits up cautiously, but he is, surprisingly, not hungover. "...Good."

"Excellent. I managed to get Tylenol into you before you went down, just in case."

"Thanks. Um"--he glances around the room for a couch and comes up empty--"did we sleep in the same bed?"

Stephen grins at him. "I tried to keep to my side, but you were quite insistent on cuddling."

"Shit." Anderson rubs his face with both hands. "I'm sorry. I get like that when I'm drunk."

"Not a problem," Stephen says. He hands Anderson a croissant from a plate on the nightstand and then asks, his eyes softening, "Do you want to talk about Keith?"

 _No. Definitely no._  "What did I tell you last night?" he asks apprehensively.

"Just that he's mine and Jon's fault -- which is a bit much, I think, to blame anyone for. You conked out on my shoulder as soon as I got you into the cab and practically sleep-walked up here."

Anderson feels a rush of relief. Having someone else know would make it entirely too real. "It's nothing," he says. "Just normal couple stuff. I'm sure we'll work it out when I get home."

Thankfully, Stephen doesn't press the issue.

 

_**Eleven** _

It's hard to judge if he's gaining ground.

He gets home late and finds Keith already asleep -- or so he thinks until he crawls into the bed and Keith wraps an arm around Anderson and drags him into full-body contact. "Hey," he says, breath tickling the back of Anderson's neck.

"Hey yourself."

Keith strokes his hand down Anderson's bare chest to his cock. "Too tired?" he asks, cupping it through his boxers.

"Mm-mm." Anderson turns his head and catches Keith's mouth in a kiss. When Keith breaks it off and pushes his shoulder to turn him onto his stomach, Anderson pulls away and rolls onto his back instead. "Let's not rush it," he says. "We've got all night." His heart is pounding with apprehension alongside the want, but Keith just nods and kisses him again, and Anderson smiles against his lips.

They have sex again the next night, but with the election just around the corner, they're both too exhausted to do much in the days following. Keith leaves earlier in the mornings, with a hurried "bye" that's barely audible over the sound of the blender mixing Anderson's protein shake, but he returns earlier too. He's always sleeping by the time Anderson gets home, which curtails any ideas of quickies.  _At least he isn't out with Rachel_ , Anderson thinks. He finds Keith's hand under the blanket and covers it with his own as he drifts off.

And so they stay in a stalemate until election night.

 

Election coverage is his least favorite part of his job. It's long, mentally exhausting work without the benefit of feeling like he's doing something productive, because when it comes down to it, his role is simply to referee CNN's endless panels of pundits and throw to the other anchors. He knows the outcome of any election is important, and this one in particular, but it's hard to keep that in mind when he's being forced to talk to a "hologram" of a celebrity commentator (and isn't Jon going to have a  _field day_  with that).

The only upside is that Charlie has been paired with him for the night, and he uses any time Anderson doesn't need to be paying attention too closely to make snarky comments in his earpiece. Anderson has to turn away from the cameras a few times so they don't catch him holding back laughter.

After Obama has been declared the winner, the speeches have been made, the pundits have offered one last opinion, and he has finally,  _finally_ signed off for the night, he goes back to his office to change out of his suit. He's pulling his jeans on in his dressing room/closet when the door swings open and Charlie says, "Hey."

Anderson turns away quickly and finishes doing up his fly. "Jesus, could you knock?"

"Like I haven't seen it," Charlie says, rolling his eyes. Before Anderson can decide how to respond to that, he comes into the room, shuts the door behind him, and steps so close that for a moment, Anderson's sure he's about to be kissed again. But then Charlie thrusts Anderson's BlackBerry at his chest. "You left it on the desk in the studio."

"Oh. Thanks," Anderson says, his fingers brushing against Charlie's as he takes it.

"You're welcome." Charlie stands there, studying him with an unreadable expression, for another few seconds, and then he turns and goes as suddenly as he came.

_Well, that was weird._

He turns the BlackBerry over in his hand and sees there's a new message on it, from a number he doesn't recognize.

 _Anderson-- I know Keith forgets to tell you these things, so I thought I'd do it myself. We're going out for celebratory drinks. He might not be back for awhile. Happy Election Night!  
_ _Rachel_

Anderson reads it three times and then checks his other messages, just to be sure he didn't somehow miss one from Keith saying the same thing. He didn't. There are tears prickling in his eyes. He blinks them away, shoves the BlackBerry into his pocket, and walks out of his office with only the vaguest idea of where he's going.

He sees Charlie walking down the hallway toward the elevators with a group of other producers and shouts his name, breaking into a jog to catch up. Charlie looks around and then waves the others on and waits for Anderson to stop in front of him. "Yeah?" he asks, spreading his arms a little, palms up.

"You were right," Anderson says, voice low, "Keith doesn't care." He glances down Charlie's body and bites his lip. "Come back to my apartment with me."

Charlie's hands slowly fall to his sides, and he looks at Anderson with something like pity. "Sorry," he says, "but I'm trying to cut back on my drinking."

Anderson watches him walk away, feeling ashamed for no reason he can describe.

 

Keith would be fine if he just left a note, Anderson knows, but he doesn't want to do that. It's not because he's seeking closure -- that's a concept he's never believed in -- and it's not about decency or bravery, either. If he's being brutally honest, he's hoping Keith will realize what he's losing and will say.... What,  _Anderson, don't go, I need you_? Some big, romantic speech? Yeah, he's pathetic, all right.

When Keith finally gets home, early the next morning, Anderson is sitting in the living room looking at his packed bag. Molly lies beside him, her leash already clipped to her collar.

Keith stops a few feet away when he sees him. "Going on another assignment?"

"No." Anderson takes his key out of his pocket and sets it on the coffee table. Keith looks at it blankly, and Anderson feels his last bit of delusional hope vanish. "It's the key to our apartment. Your apartment. I'm giving it back."

"Oh," Keith says. He moves closer, his gaze on the key rather than Anderson. "Then...you're moving out."

"Yes."

Now Keith does look at him. "We...we were never quite on the same page, were we?" 

"I love you," Anderson says, "and you don't love me. So yeah, I guess you could say that."

Keith opens his mouth, closes it again, and frowns. "I do  _like_  you," he says, finally, like that should be significant.

"Because I’m convenient." Anderson can feel it coming, and he  _is not_  going to cry in front of Keith, not going to do that to either of them, so he stands, picks up the duffel bag that holds everything that was ever his in this place, and clicks his tongue at Molly. "Goodbye."

As he passes him, Keith says, "It's not just because you're convenient," and Anderson stops but doesn't turn around.

 _This is where the big, romantic speech would go_ , he thinks. "If Rachel were into men, would you even be with me?" He waits, and when seconds pass without an answer, he nods and leaves.

 

_**Twelve** _

The next few days, he goes to work, goes home to an apartment that feels foreign to him after so much time away, falls asleep with the help of Ambien, and gets up in the morning to do it all over again. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job holding it together, considering. Until, in a few moments of weakness, he DVRs Keith's show and watches it when he gets home from doing his own. 

It was a bad idea to begin with, and turns into an even worse one as he reaches the end and Keith introduces the topic of his Special Comment that night: Proposition 8 and same-sex marriage. Anderson listens to him speak eloquently about love, how rare it is, how it should be protected and cherished, and a long time after Keith signs off, when Anderson is as sure as he can be that he won't start crying again in the middle of a sentence, he calls Jon.

"Andy?"

"Yeah. Sorry, it's ridiculously late."

"It's fine," Jon says, his voice just above a whisper. "You know me, I don't sleep. Let me go to the living room so I don't wake Tracey up."

"'Kay." Anderson rolls onto his side and pulls Molly closer to his chest while he waits. She huffs softly.

"What's wrong?" Jon asks a few seconds later, at a normal volume.

Anderson swallows, not sure he can even get it out. "Keith and I...."

Jon mutters something that sounds like  _that motherfucker._

"It's not his fault," Anderson says. "He never once said--" He breaks off with a hitching breath. "I just assumed he couldn't. And I never...I never told him how I felt. I didn't want him to think I was pressuring him."

"Anyone who saw you look at him  _knew_  how you felt."

"Keith didn't. Maybe he never saw me." He rubs Molly's ear between his thumb and forefinger, thinking about it. "Maybe I never saw him."

"Or maybe he's an asshole," Jon says, and then, "Sorry. I know you're not at the point where you want to trash-talk him."

"I'm not sure I'll ever be at that point," Anderson says. "Right now, I'm at the point where I need a distraction. I think about him less at work, but then I come home and have nothing else to do."

"Why don't Stephen and I come over tomorrow night?" Jon asks.

Anderson smiles wanly. "I like how you're volunteering Stephen's time along with your own."

"You forget that I'm still his boss, so he has to do everything I tell him," Jon says. "He'd want to come, anyway," he adds, more seriously. "He's been worrying about you since that weekend in Rochester. So how's about it?"

"Yeah, that'd be good."

"Great. Need me to think up some distracting conversation right now? Um...the Mets' latest streak of suckitude, maybe? No, shit, sorry. Baseball isn't a good topic."

"It's fine," Anderson says, actually laughing a little. "I'm going to let you get back to not sleeping and take an Ambien. Thank you."

Jon wishes him a good night, and Anderson disconnects the call feeling like he's been an eyewitness reporter to days of horrific tragedy, which is a marginal improvement.

 

The next night, Jon and Stephen sit on his couch and listen to him for over an hour as he recounts every time Keith said something or did something or looked at him in a way that he interpreted as meaning what it clearly did not.

When he's done, Stephen says, "Okay, Andy, now we're going to apply the patented Stephen Colbert (But Not Really Because I Stole It From Dan Savage) Method of Getting Over a Breakup. It's a two-step process. One: wallow. Which you've clearly mastered, so we'll move on to step two: coat yourself in the saliva of other people."

"Ew?" Anderson says.

"The point is, we're going out," Jon says. "Put on your dancing shoes, Cooper."

 

They take him to a gay bar.

"Aren't you guys concerned that rumors are going to start about you?" Anderson asks.

Jon snorts. "That ship has already sailed, trust us."

"Is this okay?" Stephen asks. "I mean, should we go to a bear hangout, where there's a higher percentage of abnormally large men? Is that your usual type or was there something special about He Who Shall Not Be Named Anymore Tonight?"

"This is fine," Anderson assures him.

"Excellent! Hey, check out the salivary glands on  _that_  guy!"

By the end of the night, Anderson is not coated in saliva -- not for Stephen's lack of effort -- but he  _is_  sufficiently distracted enough to fall asleep without a pill.

 

He can't bring himself to delete  _Countdown_  off his DVR, but he doesn't watch it again. Instead, he starts bringing home more research to read when he can't sleep, and Jon calls almost every night, with new topics for discussion each time. It helps, a little. Anderson starts to feel like he's in the drawn-out phase after the immediate tragedy is over, when the destruction begins to seem normal.

 

CNN goes all out for the  _Planet in Peril: Battle Lines_  premiere. There's an actual strip of red carpet leading to the screening theater, which Anderson rolls his eyes at before being directed to stand on it with Sanjay, Lisa Ling, and Charlie, while photographers (half of whom, he's certain, are CNN's own) snap away. The "gala event" feeling lessens somewhat once they're inside though, so he can relax. They watch the entire special from beginning to end for the first time, and Anderson feels proud of what they've all accomplished. Charlie, especially, because it was his first time as an EP.

At the cocktail party following the screening, he tries to find Charlie to tell him that, but when he asks around for him, Charlie always seems to have just gone somewhere else. Anderson has a sneaking suspicion he's being avoided.  _Come to think of it, he hasn't really talked to me since election night._  That, of course, reminds him of Keith. He stops a passing waiter and takes a champagne glass off his tray.

Ten minutes later, Neil taps on his shoulder and says, "If you're still looking for Charlie, he went through there just now." He points to a set of double doors with an EXIT sign glowing over them.

"Thanks."

Anderson makes his way to the doors and pushes one open. They lead to a back hallway in the hotel, where Charlie is sitting against the wall with his legs straight out and his eyes closed.

"Hey," Anderson says, stepping into the hallway and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Charlie opens his eyes. "Hey," he answers, listless.

Frowning, Anderson sits down beside him. "You okay? You should be enjoying this, you know. Not a lot of first-time EPs get this kind of party in our business."

"M'fine," Charlie says. He pulls a flask from his tux pocket and takes a swig of whatever's inside, and Anderson thinks,  _Should've known._

"Look," he begins, hesitantly, "I'm not an expert or anything, but I'm pretty sure carrying alcohol around with you and sneaking off to drink are not good signs."

Charlie sighs and rolls his head against the wall to look at Anderson. "I've already told you: the drinking isn't the problem."

"What  _is_ , then?"

For a long few seconds, Charlie has the same unreadable expression he had in the dressing room on election night. Then he leans across the space between them and kisses Anderson, biting on his lower lip hard enough to hurt before pulling away.

"That," he says, turning back to the opposite wall.

Anderson can only stare at him.

"I mean"--Charlie gestures with the flask--"at first, sure, it wasn't you. It was New Orleans, and it was right after Katrina, and nothing had changed, and anyone would've gotten drunk. Neil did.  _You_  did. So yeah, at first, I fucked you because I was drunk."

He stops to drink again, and Anderson wants to knock the flask away and put his hand over Charlie's mouth to keep him from saying any more, but his body doesn't cooperate.

"Then I started getting drunk so I could fuck you," Charlie continues, "and now I get drunk because I can't fuck you knowing that you're thinking of him." He shakes his head, as drained as Anderson's ever seen him. "It's not your fault. I thought I could trick you into loving me. I guess now we both know that's impossible. You couldn't do it to Keith, and I can't do it to you."

He looks at Anderson once more, and Anderson has to fight himself not to look away. It's the least he can do.

"I used to think that made us even, on some level," Charlie says quietly. "I could deal with it if I knew you were getting your heart broken, too. But it turns out I can't even be that angry at you." He laughs -- a horrible sound -- takes another swig, and asks, "How fucked up is that?"

"I...I have to go," Anderson says, pushing himself to his feet.

"Yeah, of course," Charlie says. "I'll just stay here awhile longer. See you at work on Monday."

On his way back through the ballroom, Anderson finds Neil and pulls him away from the group he's with. "Could you make sure Charlie gets home okay?" he asks quietly.

Neil gives the doors to the hallway a knowing look and says, "Yeah." Then he studies Anderson closer. "He finally told you, didn't he?"

He can't answer. Neil sighs and walks away, toward Charlie.

 

Anderson loses count of how many times he watches Keith's Special Comment that weekend.

 

It only takes one look at Charlie as he walks through the newsroom to his office on Monday for Anderson to know he wasn't drunk enough to forget what he said. Which takes away Anderson's last evasion.  _Now or never_ , he thinks, and knocks on Charlie's office door.

"Come in."

Anderson opens it, but doesn't step inside, unsure of his welcome. "It's me," he says.

"I can see that," Charlie says, flatly. "Are you going to come in or do you want the whole newsroom to hear whatever it is?"

He goes in and stands in front of Charlie's desk. Anderson's rehearsed what he wants to say, but he can't remember half of it, so he just does his best to look Charlie in the eye and wings it. "The thing is...the thing is, I knew. I knew what I was doing to you, on some level. I ignored it, and I used you. I didn't...." He trails off and swallows before continuing, "What Keith did to me was thoughtless, but what I did to you was cruel. I'm sorry. And believe me, I know how fucking inadequate that is, but it's all I can say. I'm so  _very_  sorry. If you want to go work for another show, or another network, even, I'll make sure you have the best possible references and contacts."

Charlie blinks a few times and gives him a jerky nod. "...I'll keep that in mind."

"Okay." Anderson starts to leave, but then turns back. "I just -- when was it that you went from fucking me because you were drunk to getting drunk so you could fuck me? I need to know."

"The second time," Charlie says, voice thick. "In Congo."

 _One of the only times I made any effort at stopping him_ , Anderson thinks. 

 

Charlie doesn't come in the next day, and Anderson hates himself for feeling relieved. He's distracted even worse than he was just after Election Day, so when David Doss asks him to stay behind at the last run-down, Anderson assumes that's what it's about. Then David catches him completely off guard by saying, "Normally, this would be confidential, but Charlie wanted me to tell you. He's not going to be here for a week, because he checked himself into rehab this morning. I've told everyone else he's on vacation, okay?"

"I--yeah, okay.... That's good. I mean, I'm glad for him."

"Yeah," David says. "I hope it works out. I've been eyeing him to be my replacement when I retire."

"He'd be great for that," Anderson says. "Well, I should go get ready for the show."

David nods, dismissing him, and Anderson leaves the meeting room. As he walks back to his office, one of the TV monitors in the newsroom catches his eye. It's showing  _Countdown_ , and Keith is grinning at Rachel.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a long author's note filled with the stuff that inspired me while writing this fic. But before we get to that, I must offer many, many thanks to the AC360 and Planet in Peril teams (though I hope none of them ever see this) for being wonderfully obsessive about documenting their every move in 2008. I'm also forever grateful to Sarken, because without her cheering me on and helping me work through things, I never would have finished this.
> 
>  
> 
> **My three-song soundtrack:**
> 
>  
> 
> [Never There, by Cake](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=peU2rztucGk) (Anderson to Keith)   
>  _On the phone, long, long distance_  
>  _Always through such strong resistance_  
>  _First you say you're too busy_  
>  _I wonder if you even miss me_  
>  _..._  
>  _Take the time to get to know me_  
>  _If you want me why can't you just show me_  
>  _We're always on this roller coaster_  
>  _If you want me why can't you get closer_
> 
> [Make You Feel My Love, by Bob Dylan/Adele](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0put0_a--Ng) (Charlie to Anderson)  
>  _The storms are raging_  
>  _On the rolling sea_  
>  _And on the highway of regret_  
>  _The winds of change_  
>  _Are blowing wild and free_  
>  _You ain't seen nothing_  
>  _Like me yet_
> 
>  
> 
> _I could make you happy_  
>  _Make your dreams come true_  
>  _Nothing that I wouldn't do_  
>  _Go to the ends_  
>  _Of the Earth for you_  
>  _To make you feel my love_
> 
>  
> 
> [Love is a War, by The Rogue Traders](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvC2sTOkJjI) (the fic in general)  
>  _Lights shine like the city's burning,_  
>  _I gotta break through the barricade,_  
>  _Now I'm putting my war paint on,_  
>  _Yeah, I'm getting my war paint on._
> 
>  
> 
> _I've stolen the guns from mister,_  
>  _And the shots will be flying past,_  
>  _Hope he's bringing his army on,_  
>  _Here they come with the game face on._
> 
>  
> 
> _So all the girls,_  
>  _And all the boys,_  
>  _All the lovers make noise!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Hold on tight cause here we go,_  
>  _Strap your asses to the floor,_  
>  _I said love, love, love, love is a war._  
>  _Romance died with Romeo,_  
>  _That's how we all came to know..._  
>  _That love, love, love, love is a war._
> 
>  
> 
> **A poem I came across on Tumblr in September:**
> 
>  
> 
> _I no longer need you to fuck me as hard_  
>  _as I hate myself._  
>  _Make love to me_  
>  _like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did._  
>  _Go slow._  
>  _I’m new to this_  
>  _but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping._  
>  _I have realized_
> 
>  
> 
> _that the moon did not have to be full for us to love it._  
>  _We are not tragedies_  
>  _stranded here beneath it._  
>  _— We Were Emergencies- Buddy Wakefield_
> 
>  
> 
> **Links to other things:**
> 
>  
> 
> [the](http://www.cnn.com/CNN/Programs/anderson.cooper.360/blog/2006/07/getting-personal-with-katyusha-rockets.html) [two](http://www.cnn.com/CNN/Programs/anderson.cooper.360/blog/2006/07/what-do-you-hear-in-these-sounds.html) blog posts that started the whole thing  
> [audio clips of Anderson talking about his masturbation habits](http://zeggy.tumblr.com/tagged/ac%20on%20loveline)  
> [ _Planet in Peril_ bloopers, including Sanjay's video while the tire was being changed and just a glimpse of Charlie before he ducks out of the shot](http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/bestoftv/2008/06/18/ac.shot.tuesday.cnn)  
> [Anderson showing the _Daily Show_ crew CNN's ridiculous Election Express bus and admitting that the retractable television is on Lifetime](http://www.allthingsandersoncooper.com/2008/10/look-at-ac360-blog.html)  
> [Keith's special comment on Prop 8](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ChanTFSmqao)


End file.
